


The Devil's In The Details

by movieholic



Series: Sins Of The Father [2]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Brother/Sister - Freeform, Drama, Father/Daughter, Father/Son, Gen, General, Possible Spoilers (Movieverse), Road Trips, Sequel, Slight Non-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 38,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movieholic/pseuds/movieholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the knowledge that he has two other children, Erik and his son set off to locate them. Their road trip is far from uneventful, however.</p>
<p>Sequel to Sins Of The Father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> As a writer, I have taken the liberty to choose and use various facts and tidbits from both the X-Men Comics and X-Men films. I will attempt to have everything make sense in the realm of my story, but there will be things that are not accurate in one world as they would be in another. This note is to appease any readers that find something is not “canonically correct,” and choose to point it out. I'm aware. Thank you.

It had been weeks since Erik Lehnsherr had involuntarily recruited his son to join his mutant cause. It had also been weeks full of inane chatter, persistent headaches, and constant eye rolling. Erik's mental state was, without a doubt, fragile after enduring his son, and all of said son's antics, for several days. The metal bender was convinced he was beginning to develop a permanent tic in his jaw from all the physically demanding attempts to keep his mouth shut. The same could be said for the twitch to his eye as he fought to keep his hands away from the teen's pale throat.

Erik's tight grip on the black steering wheel slowly lost its tension as the rambling teenager began rubbing at his eyes with his knuckle. He stifled a wide yawn with his free hand. Peter stretched his arms out, and accompanied the movement with another wide, and obnoxious yawn. He shifted in his seat for several minutes before finally lifting himself up, and shoving his lean body into the back of the car. His sneaker-clad foot clipped the tip of Erik's ear as he twisted and adjusted himself.

Despite his aggravation, Erik took a deep breath and focused his tired eyes on the black asphalt road before him. It wasn't long before the teen's heavy breathing evened out, and he succumbed to his evident exhaustion. Erik glanced in the review mirror, and couldn't help a fond smile from upturning the edges of his lips. The sight of his sprawled out son sleeping soundly in the back of their stolen vehicle wasn't a common one. He turned back to the dark road ahead, and stifled his own yawn.

The rhythmic rumble of the nondescript black Chrysler, coupled with the soft snores from Peter, and the caressing coolness of air from his cracked window threatened to lull the bone-weary man into a deep sleep. The smooth, black pavement gave way to desert sand when Erik finally forced himself to admit his fatigue, and pulled the car off the road. He coasted the vehicle around a small, rust-riddled shanty made from slabs of thin steel. It was the only building in sight for miles, and Erik didn't believe he'd have to fight anyone for the right to crash there for a night.

He put the car in park, before he turned the ignition off. Without the purr of the engine, the car ceased its mild vibration, and brought with it a sudden stillness and silence. Said silence was punctuated only by the mild snores from Peter, and the steady breathing from Erik himself. Erik closed his aching eyes, and rested his forehead against the warmth of the steering wheel he had only just let go of after hours upon hours of relentlessly tedious driving.

When he felt himself drifting off in his hunched over and uncomfortable position, Erik forcibly pulled his head up before rubbing at his eyes with the palms of both his hands. He suppressed a deep groan at the minimal relief the kneading wrought out. He turned his head to peek at the back seat, and was barely able to make out the dark lump that was his son with the aid of the moon. With his son sleeping relatively comfortably, and no immediate detectable threats, Erik allowed himself to push his seat back as far as his son's prone form allowed, and finally closed his eyes for much needed rest.

* * *

 

“Wakey, wakey, old man.”

Erik slowly peeled back one lid, and then the other, before blinking rapidly to rid himself of the bleariness that clouded his vision. He craned his head to the right, and was met with a wide-eyed, grinning teenager with a loudly growling stomach. Despite the obviously hungry boy, Erik turned his head away, draped his forearm across his eyes, and tried to resume his sleep with a gruff, “Five more minutes.”

Peter frowned, and began prodding his father's side with his finger. “Hey, man, c'mon.” When the poking didn't rouse the man into action, Peter clambered back into the rear and placed his feet against the driver's side seat. He used his speed to vibrate the chair as fast and as hard as he could manage. The older man visibly started, before he pulled his arm away from his face.

“Knock it off,” he grumbled in his sleep-heavy voice.

“I'm starving,” the teenager petulantly whined.

Erik felt his body tense, and couldn't help the enraged tinge to his reply. “You don't _know_ what _starving_ is, boy.” Despite this, he did pull himself upright, and pulled the driver's seat back into his original position with jerky and sharp movements.

Peter, aware that he had once again angered his father, adopted a mild pout before hefting himself into the front, passenger side seat. He squinted as the blinding sun pierced their unprotected windshield, and bore it's white, hot heat upon them. He lifted a hand to cover his brown eyes, and then risked a glance over to Erik.

The older man was unbuttoning the white polo that he wore; trying to pull the fabric away from his sweat-slicked skin with a grimace. The heat was becoming unbearable; especially trapped inside what was essentially a furnace, and without any noticeable breeze to move the stagnant air. He opened the car door, and pulled his long body out from the confining space. Peter watched as his father stretched, before he turned round and poked his head back into the car.

“I'm going to relieve myself,” he stated. “Don't do anything stupid.”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but the sight of pale blue eyes zeroing on his neck gave him pause. The man looked like he was contemplating murder. His murder. So, instead of an ornery remark, Peter gave him an eye roll with accompanied mock salute.

When Erik returned, the teenager had placed his feet on the dashboard, and was dangling his arm out of the now rolled down window. Despite wanting to shove the kid's sneakers off the dash, Erik just ignored the slight rebuke of authority, and simply buckled his seatbelt instead. He rolled down his own window all the way, turned the ignition, and rolled the car forward.

They weren't on the road for long when the teen pulled his arm back in, and began drumming a random cadence against his thighs with the palms of his hands. He grinned up into the glaring sun, and closed his against the gentle caress of wind that tousled his silver locks.

“So,” he began, “We grab some grub, and then what?” When no response was instantly forthcoming, Peter risked a peek at his father's impassive expression. His left arm rested on the door; his elbow nearly out of the vehicle's window as he propped his head against his closed hand. Their steady speed down the desert highway kicked up a dry mixture of air and dust that coated the crinkles around the older man's eyes. “Erik? What's the game plan, here?”

“The game plan, Peter, is to leave the planning up to me.” The scathing remark was lessened by the man's lack of expression. However, a slight bend in the normally straightforward road angled the sun directly into his eyes. He grimaced at the sudden sharpness, and pulled his head away from where he had been resting it. “Sunglasses, kid.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Would it kill you to say _please_?” He pulled his legs off the dash, and began to rummage in the glove box. He pulled out the now familiar Dita Legends Carbine. His father had a taste for fashionable glasses.

“Yes. It would.” Erik plucked the offered object from his son's hands, and slipped the frames onto his face. He resumed his head-propped position.

The teen scowled, and slouched further in his seat. He and his father had been traveling for weeks, and the most information that the teenager had managed to gather was that the two of them were going to recruit mutants for their cause. He didn't know how they were going to find them, convince them to drop whatever life they had been living, and then join their “rebellion against the humans” cause. But apparently he didn't need to be included in on the plan.

Peter's scowl deepened. He crossed his arms over his chest, and turned his head away from Erik. He didn't care if the man saw him annoyed or frustrated, but hurt or upset wasn't something he was quite willing to share just yet. The teen huffed soundly.

Erik, having noted his son's wounded demeanor, ground his teeth as he mentally argued with himself. He didn't mean to exclude the boy from everything, but he wasn't used to being open or inclusive with his plans or emotions. Ten years ago, maybe. But that was another time; another life.

“Look, Peter,” Erik started with a heavy exhale, “I'm barely sure what I'm doing. I don't like working off the cuff, and _admitting_ that I don't.” He pulled his head away from his hand, and let his arm graze the exterior of the sun-warmed car. “I'll try to include you more, okay?”

The teen perked when Erik started talking, but had refused to meet what he assumed was a steady gaze behind those purple-tinted glasses. When Erik grudgingly admitted his failings, he looked over and fought off a grin. “Yeah, okay.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Erik stared at the impossible looking knobs of the shower stall he currently stood in. A substantial buildup of limescale coated the bubble-glass door, and effectively rendered Erik blind to anyone or anything on the other side of the broom-closet sized bathroom. He figured, with a deeply blasé attitude, that it was only for the best that he couldn't see the rest of the equally disgusting room.

He withheld a displeased shudder when his elbow roughly skid across the gritty, off-white deposit. The space in the stall was abysmally small, and made for interesting stances when attempting to turn on the shower...much less actual showering. It took a few tries, but Erik eventually figured out how the knobs turned, and that the temperature of the water ranged from “hotter than the depths of Hell” or colder than the soulless pit that was named Shaw.

He quickly and efficiently rinsed off his lean form; absently pleased to be rid of the tacky sweat, and dusting of dirt that ringed his eyes. He disinterestedly watched as puce-colored water slid down his long torso, and swirl around the pink-rimmed drain. He curiously wondered if the water was that color before or after making contact with his skin, but shook his head and instead opted to dig his fingernails into his scalp in an attempt to wash it without shampoo.

When he finally stepped out of his scalding rinse, steam billowing behind him and coating the inside of his throat with its soaking oppressiveness, he blindly grabbed for the motel's offered towel (on a rack that looked barely fit to withstand the weight of a tissue much less any heavy fabric,) and pressed the rough material to his face with a muffled groan. Eyes closed and mouth pressed into a thin line, he removed the coarse, peach-colored towel from his now sensitive skin and rubbed it along his neck. Satisfied that he soaked up enough dripping water from the base of his neck's hairline, he diligently made short work of toweling off the rest of his limbs.

He easily slipped into a pair of white briefs, which he followed with beige slacks. He pulled a dark brown belt through the loops, and cinched the buckle at the front with condensation-slicked fingers. The struggle was brief, however, so he didn't think to use his powers in aide. He absently held out his hand and twisted his wrist; opening the bathroom door without looking at it. The warm air on the opposite side was significantly cooler than the one he currently stood in, therefore it was a somewhat welcome reprieve from the sweltering heat.

When he emerged from restroom, a brisk breeze tickled his bare torso before the door he just stepped out of slammed shut. He felt his lips quirk in amusement as he strode the few steps across the room in order to reach his designated bed. He plucked the navy blue, v-neck shirt he had laid out earlier from atop the paisley comforter, and slipped it on with ease.

Feeling much better, now that he was bereft of dust-slicked skin, Erik turned on his heel and settled on the edge of the mattress. He reached over to grab a sheaf of papers he left on the nightstand, and rifled through them till he came upon a hand-written note he had jotted himself. The piece of paper held his neat shorthand, and mentioned a mutant he had overheard about on the news a week prior. It was that news that had lead Erik and his son to this specific location. Without the use of Cerebro at their disposal, they were forced to use journalistic approaches to find their fellow mutants around the globe. Or at least stateside to start.

The mutant that they were currently looking for was a man that was reportedly able to distort reality. Erik felt a great need for a man with that kind of talent. So, the duo had struck out and hit the road. They closely followed the gossip and rumors, trusting them just slightly more than the actual news, because they usually held a modicum of truth when it came to strange sightings.

They were nearing their target, if the locals in this nearly desolate, desert town were anything to go by. Erik felt his toothy grin emerge from the knowledge that they were about to recruit the first brother to their cause. It didn't cross the metal-bender's mind that the other mutant may refuse their offer. It wasn't an option in his eyes.

Erik took a moment to replace the note back onto the pile, and pulled his legs onto the stiff mattress. He leaned back, dug his elbows into the ridiculously thin comforter, and pulled his lithe body down until his head rested upon the top of a pink-encased pillow. Settled as much as he could on such a disagreeable object, he rested his hands atop his taut stomach, and closed his eyes.

The impassive mutant called upon his meditative habits that he had formed during his time in solitary, and applied them to his breathing. After several minutes, he felt his tense body mold itself to the lumpy contours of the bed underneath him, and his breathing steady out into even puffs. He remained in this position for several minutes, before the sound of Peter bustling about the cramped room prompted him to open his right eye in a sliver of annoyed gray.

“One hour,” he stated tiredly. He lifted one finger, pointed it at the teen, and added: “Stay out of trouble. I mean it.”

Peter grinned toothily, and zoomed out of the motel room in a flurry of excitement. The teen wasn't used to tight spaces, and being confined to one small space after the other was slowly driving the young man insane. Erik knew how much he desperately wanted to be free of his metaphorical shackles, and occasionally granted the eager teen an hour or so of reprieve. So long as he behaved himself. And kept the theft to a minimum. They only had so much room in their car as it was.

Erik resumed his nearly unbroken trance. He felt his jaw lose its slight rigidness, and the shallow depressions that usually formed on his brow gradually smooth. The mutant wasn't sure when he re-closed his eyes, or how long he had dozed off, when he was suddenly startled to alertness by a familiar tickle across the forefront of his mind. He dug his right elbow into the mattress, and bodily pulled himself into an upright sitting position.

_Charles_?

_Hello, Erik_.

_Do I really need to resort to wearing that ridiculous looking helmet all the time_?

There was a mental equivalent of a dry chuckle, before Charles replied with _Ridiculous is a very apt term._

_Yes. Pardon my being blunt, old friend, but is there something I can do for you?_

_Hmm. Less of what you can do, and more of what you should know._ There was a pause, almost hesitant in its nature. _Despite my own feelings on the subject, and my previous earnestness to_ never _find myself in your mind again, I feel it is my duty to inform you of some rather serious news._

_You know, for someone who so vehemently stated he would never_ _go into my mind again, you sure find yourself there often._ Erik, who had been staring at a yellow stain on the wall across from him, chose to close his eyes and imagine himself having a face-to-face conversation with Charles. He could vividly picture cherry red lips, electric blue eyes, and ivory white skin.

_Erik,_ the voice was grave. Erik nearly opened his eyes again, as if the expressive face of his old friend would be before him, and could show the gravity of what he was about to say. _Peter isn't the only one, Erik._

That wasn't what he expected to hear. Erik frowned, and felt the earlier depressions on his brow return in full force. _Only one? Charles, I don't understand._

_Peter isn't the only child._ Your _only child._

Erik felt his entire body stiffen; his stomach dropped to his toes, and his heart leapt into his throat. _Peter. Peter isn't my only child?_

_I'm afraid not._

_You're not taking the piss, are you, old friend?_

_Erik,_ that mental sigh again, _Peter has a twin sister. And there is another, younger child._

The metal-bender could feel his lips moving, as if he was physically trying to form words that Charles wouldn't be able to hear immediately. The man's talents were amazing, but they were still rusty after so many years without full use of them.

_A twin._

_Yes. And another. A daughter._

Charles sounded patient, as if could feel the shock wreaking havoc within his body. In actual fact, Erik was positive the mutant could, but he was too over bridled with conflicting emotions to form more than one coherent thought at a time.

_I have a daughter. Two daughters._ Erik slowly opened his eyes. _Where? Charles, where are they?_ He sat up straighter. _Where are my children?_

Then he felt it. He could feel Charles hesitancy come back full force. He didn't want Erik to know where his own children were. Why? Why didn't his old friend want to know?

Erik ground his teeth, and grimaced. He didn't want him to know, because he didn't want Erik to “corrupt” them as he believed Erik had done to Peter. He didn't want them roped into Erik's Brotherhood. Erik exhaled sharply, and slammed his eyes closed again.

_Listen here, old friend. They are my children. My flesh and blood. Damn your own feelings on the matter. I demand to know where they are!_

So, it was with great reluctance that the mental-manipulator told Erik what little he was able to glean from Cerebro. He described what he could make out of their appearance, their powers, and their last known location. When he finished sharing what he knew, he offered some last advice: _Tread carefully, Erik. They are more powerful than you fully realize._

The connection left as suddenly as it had came, and left Erik with the odd sense that Charles wasn't referring to his newly discovered daughters. 


	3. Chapter 3

Completely unsettled by the unexpected bomb that was Charles' news, Erik found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, and bouncing his leg up and down in a mindless rhythm. The steel frame underneath him groaned as he placed his elbows on his thighs, and creaked when he formed twin fists with his hands before he placed them on either side of his now hanging head. Whether it was his weight on the feeble frame or his current tenuous grasp on his powers that caused the creaking and groaning, he couldn't be sure.

He gradually loosened his clench when the blunt nails of his fingers began to pierce the palms of his hands. He brought them down to his jaw, and splayed his square fingers over the tight muscle. It ticked underneath his palms; the calloused skin of his hands catching on the rough stubble. He slowly raked his nails over the taut skin, and back up into his hairline. He grasped the little wisps of curly hair with both of his hands, and tugged.

_Another. Two. Daughters._

His thoughts were a jumbled, chaotic mess; his emotions ever more so. The litany continued:  _Two. Daughters. Another. Daughters. Two daughters._

Bewilderment, elation, confusion, anxiousness, nervousness...His emotions rallied and thrummed in his veins as he thought:  _I have two girls. Two daughters. Three kids._

He could almost picture the girls from Charles' brief description of them. The eldest was, obviously, Peter's age. She didn't appear to be as untoward as her brother (he hadn't heard any news or rumors flying around about anyone similar to her,) or outlandish in her looks (no preposterous goggles in sight or long, silvery locks.) Charles described a teen of average height, with unremarkable dark brown hair and equally dark eyes. It was a severely vague and wanting portrayal, but it was all Charles could offer from such a short amount of time spent looking at her. He had added that he believed the teen able to affect probability, but was unsure of how the power manifested when it was in use.

Then there was the little girl. Charles surmised she had to be at least ten years of age, possibly a tad bit more if her youthful looks were as deceiving as her father's. With her age in mind, Erik was sure the child was conceived during his time in Dallas (he had had a brief interlude with a woman he could not now recall,) before the President's accidental assassination and his solitary imprisonment for said act. He was informed that the girl had shockingly emerald green hair and stunning green eyes. It was harder for Erik to picture such a child as his own with that description in mind. It was easier to imagine a child that could control magnetism; which she was able to do.

As Erik sat in wondrously profound thought, there was a brief flash of startlingly white sunlight cutting through the dimly lit room, but it disappeared as fast as it appeared. The space before Erik, which contained a single sized bed identical to the one he currently sat on, was suddenly filled with curious brown eyes and an unevenly tanned face.

“Erik?” Peter waved a hand in front of the man's face. The breadth of space between their separate beds barely allowed them to sit across from one another without knocking their legs together. “You okay? You look pale. Like, night of the living dead, pale.”

Erik, who had trained his glazed over eyes to the teen's knees when he appeared, slowly trailed his steely gaze up and looked directly into Peter's large, brown eyes. “Did you know?” His voice was hoarse; his glare fierce.

“What?” Peter's lips pulled down into a small frown. He furrowed his brow, and crinkled his upturned nose in confusion. “Did I know what?”

“Did. You. Know?” Erik brought his right fist down against his sinewy thigh with every word he managed to grit out between his shark-white teeth. “You have a sister, and you _didn't_ tell me?”

The metal body of the twin cots squeaked as their rusted frames were gradually bent to Erik's powerful will. His fingers, wrapped in a white-knuckled clench, tightened impossibly further. The overhead bulb, bare of any shade, swung dangerously back and forth until a minuscule twitch of Erik's eye caused the chain to snap and the glass to fall to the thin carpet in result. It bounced once before shattering. The glass glittered against the maroon red flooring despite the lack of light.

“All this time, Pietro, and you didn't think it prudent to share?” The alarmingly low growl of a voice Erik emitted was more frightening than if he had been yelling. As Erik abruptly stood, his long legs whacked the teen's outstretched limbs and caused the bony knees to painfully smack against one another. The boy winced and rubbed at his kneecaps as Erik towered over the utterly confused teen. “Answer me, Pietro!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Peter leapt, and sped from his seated position to the opposite side of the bed. The object would be of no use as a protective barrier if Erik chose to use his powers against Peter, but it didn't seem to matter in the midst of confusion and rage. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“You didn't know you had a twin?” Erik fumed. “How could you  _not_ know?”

Peter's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Are you serious, old man?” His pubescent voice suffered a slight crack in his turmoil. “How  _could_ I know. I was placed in foster care, remember? Last I checked,” He pointed a finger at his head, and twirled a finger, “Babies don't have the greatest of track records when it comes to retaining memories!”

There was a sudden silence as that fact struck Erik speechless. The Cola machine just outside their motel door made a horrendous crunching sound that was definitely not from someone upset that it stole their change, and was accompanied by Erik's distressed expression. The older man let out a ragged breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and nearly missed the edge of the bed as he sat himself back down. His outstretched hand was the only thing that saved him from an embarrassing fall.

The metal-bender pinched the bridge of his nose painfully tight, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Of course,” he acknowledged in a sigh.

Peter zipped back to Erik's side. He swiped at his flaring nostrils with the knuckle of his right hand before easing himself directly next to his father. He could feel the deep warmth of Erik's skin permeating through his cotton, Black Sabbath tee. He jostled Erik's leg in his haste to get beside him, but the older man didn't indicate that he noticed or cared.

“I have a sister? I have a _twin_ sister?” Peter's voice carried an awe that belied his age.

Erik gave the teen a curt nod.

“Dude, that's totally groovy!” Peter fought the childish urge to scramble onto his dad's lap, and demand the facts as a toddler would a bedtime story. “Is she older than me? Younger? Are we, like, minutes or hours apart? Does she have silver hair too? She's not taller, is she? She _can't_ be taller. Oh, man! What about her powers? Does she even _have_ powers? What are they? They're not cooler than mine, though, are they? That would be a total bummer. Wait, what's her name again?”

With a speed that shocked Peter to his core, Erik had brought up a hand from where it rested on his thigh, and slapped it over the teen's running mouth. It irked the boy more so when it dawned on him that Erik hadn't even turned in his seat or even moved his head to look.

“There's another.”

Peter's lips moved underneath the rough palm, but emitted no sound. His dark gray brows rose precariously high. Erik felt the flesh under his hand quirk, so he pulled it away with a deliberately slow movement (lest the childish antics of the teen be further proved by palm licking.) “Another twin?”

Erik used his years of practiced meditation to refrain from rolling his eyes. He was afraid he'd sprain something from how hard he wanted to do so. “That would make you triplets.” He could almost taste _dear_ at the end, but it was too warmhearted and frightfully reminded him of English accented words tinged with mirth and affection. Instead he just added: “A girl. A younger sister.”

The teen's eyes widened. Reminiscent to their first meeting, he mouthed “wow” to the air in astonishment. A smirk graced his now amused countenance. “Man...been busy-o, Magneto?”

It was a testament to his father's off-kilter state of mind when Erik could only offer a single, slightly raised brow, a minuscule shrug, and a self-deprecating, “Apparently.”

Peter let loose a low, appreciative whistle, and slapped his father's back once.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Amidst enthusiastic protestations, Erik resumed his search for the reality-bending mutant. Although the man desperately wanted to find his daughters, he felt a genuine need to recruit what he believed was a potentially powerful mutant. Erik couldn't let the opportunity pass with the other mutant so desperately close, and only Peter at his side.

“Stop pouting,” Erik sighed for the fifth time. He didn't even bother to look over at the teen anymore. The full lips, in all their pursed and childish glory, were easily visible from the corner of his eye. He smoothed out his right brow with his index finger.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” Peter said sullenly.

Erik felt his face contort into one of mild disbelief. “Peter,” he started in puzzlement, “You're a thief. I don't believe you would know a 'good idea' if it hit you at a hundred miles-per-hour.”

There was a brief pause, before the teen grumbled, “I can run faster than that.”

Erik's lips thinned as he looked heavenward. “That is not...” He disbelievingly trailed off, and shook his head slowly. “Peter, that was not my point.” When the teen didn't offer any reaction in return, Erik opted for a different tactic. “Did I not tell you I would try to include you on my intended strategies?” He frowned, and looked askance when Peter didn't indicate he was listening. However, when the teen felt his father's familiar, steely-eyed gaze, he acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head. “Well, here is the new intention. We are going to recruit this mutant, and then we are going to find your sisters. We need to think of the Brotherhood, and how it could aide us in finding the girls.”

That caught Peter's attention. Erik could have sworn he saw the teen's ears literally prick up at the name. “The Brotherhood?” He pulled up his knees, and folded one underneath himself as he turned to face his father. “Is that what we're going to be known as?”

Erik, eyes trained on the town ahead of them, nodded curtly. He appeared hesitant before he cocked an eyebrow, and risked asking, “What do you think?”

Peter's previous glower evaporated in a heartbeat. He grinned widely, and pushed some of his silvery hair behind his ear. “I think we should be called the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants.”

Unimpressed, Erik carefully swerved around a pothole as he said, “We are not _evil_ , Peter. We are not the villains, here.”

“Then who is?”

“Humans.”

The bitterness laced in that one, simple word was like a physical blow. Peter pulled back, his elbow smacking the passenger door frame. “Okay,” he said simply.

They didn't continue the topic, or resume speaking, but the car ride was far from being a completely silent one. Peter began rapping his knuckles against his clothed knee, while he noisily exhaled whenever a particular dusty gust of wind kicked up and into his partially rolled down window. The car's engine rumbled and purred, as the easy breeze toyed with the collar of Erik's shirt, and ruffled the sheath of papers Erik had carefully placed in the back seat.

Just as they reached the very edge of town, Erik pulled off the side of the road and put the vehicle in park. He idly unbuckled his seat with a flick of his wrist, and reached into the back to grab the papers. He pulled himself back into his seat, and started to flick through the documents until he found a neatly cut out article that had piqued his interest.

The clipping, accompanied with a black and white photo, was in reference to the strange sightings that the townspeople have claimed to have seen on the outskirt of their hometown. According to the account, many people had been committed by family members to an out of state asylum because of their desperate belief in what they had seen and their refusal to believe in the normal, so-called reality of everyone else. The people of the unincorporated community were attempting to rally outside government officials to swoop in and deal with their presumably mutant problem. The word “alien” had lost its luster when mutants were officially introduced into the picture.

The townspeople feared for their lives, the lives of their families, and the loss of their sanity. Many claimed that they had seen people off, and when they had returned, they were wide-eyed and babbling messes spouting wild tales of the crazy and outrageous things they had witnessed.

Erik's eyes drifted from the printed words to the small photo. It was of a relatively meager bunker embedded into a sand dune. It didn't appear to be made of much, or even able to handle anything more than a dust storm. The caption underneath the picture stated that many believed the source of the insanity to live there. People had refused to get any closer to officially find out.

The metal-bender raised his attentive gaze from the paper to the dirt-smeared windshield. His vision hampered by the filthy glass, he opened the car door with a twitch of his fingers, and stepped out into the blindingly white sun. He squinted, and raised a hand to his eyes. Instead of bothering to ask his son for his help, Erik motioned with his free hand towards the interior of the car. The glove compartment popped open, and smacked Peter's extended thigh. The teen grimaced until he saw the pair of sunglasses float out and into the air. They landed gently into Erik's outstretched hand.

“That's so cool,” the teen whispered.

Erik suppressed a smirk at the other's awe, and easily slipped on the pair of glasses. He scanned the town before him, and the desert around them. When nothing caught his eye, he leaned down and reached for the article he had left on his vacated seat. He allowed the sunglasses to slip to the tip of his nose so that he could get a better view of the photograph.

“Hey, Erik?” Peter's voice sounded vaguely amused. Erik ignored him.

He looked at the picture, and then back to the surrounding desert. No landmark was visible in either photo or his immediate area to help indicate where he should start to look. Erik briefly wished he had the capability of a certain old friend of his, but he banished the thought as soon as it flitted across his mind. The telepath had made his choice. And so had he.

“Earth to Erik,” Peter tried again in a singsong tone of voice.

With a suppressed growl, Erik bent at the waist until he was able to look into the car. “What?”

Peter wasn't looking at his father, but was pressing his nose against the part of the window pane he hadn't put down all the way. He lifted a hand, and pointed to a motorcyclist a solid distance away from them. He turned his head and smiled cheekily. “I think I found our guy.”

It took a moment for Erik to understand why the bike rider had to have been their mutant. The bike wasn't real. Aside from the obvious lack of noise, which they would have easily heard no matter how far away the other appeared to be, Erik could sense no metal underneath the mutant's body. Either someone had made a motorcycle without using a single bit of metal, or the mutant was using his powers to create the illusion that he was riding on a bike.

Erik raised his hand, long fingers splayed out in the air, and tried to connect with anything the mutant could have been wearing. Nothing happened. He crumpled the article in his other hand, and tossed it into the car as he slid in behind the wheel. His right hand hovered above the stick shift, and pushed forward. The car jerked as it was released from it's stationary position and began to roll forward without the brakes to hold it back.

Erik wrapped his left hand around the steering wheel while his right stayed raised and in the direction of their mutant target. As he turned the wheel, he scowled and lowered his hand to his side. “No metal on him.”

Peter quirked a brow. “You want me to chase him down?”

Erik shook his head. “No. It's too open out here. While I don't think anyone will happen upon us, I don't want to risk having any witnesses. Let's try to recruit our first member without a human riot, shall we? We'll just follow him.”

“Wow,” Peter bobbed his head up and down. “How very diplomatic of you.”

Erik ignored the sarcastic jibe. He completed the steady turn, the wheels losing traction against sand and gravel, until he used his powers to steady the vehicle and give it an extra _oomph_ to get it moving. He reached down to grab the stack of papers he had left in the space between his seat and the shift, and handed it to Peter. The teen tossed them over his shoulder without a glance.

Erik's scowl deepened when he heard his meticulously ordered documents bounce then slide off the backseat, but he didn't spare the boy a glance. “I don't think he's noticed us. Keep an eye on him.”

They drove over bumpy rocks and soft sand, and whenever Erik felt the car beginning to stall against the elements, he would give it a little push with his powers.

Peter rolled his window down further, pulled on his goggles, and stuck his head out like a dog seeking the pleasure of a whipping breeze.

“Go faster!”

With the anticipation building, Erik felt his lips curl up and around his unusually toothy grin. With another surge of his ability, he complied to the teen's jubilant order.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Erik absently rubbed a hand over the twin, misshapen circles on his neck. The scars were a dark shade of pink, and stood out against the slight tan of Erik's usually pale skin. They were starting to burn and ache under the brazen light of the overhead sun beating down upon him. He gently cupped his hand, and tried to keep the stinging sweat from the fringes of his hair from rolling down against them.

“I think I found his hidey-hole,” Peter announced as he simply appeared by Erik's side. The older man was leaning against the hood of the car, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Peter mimicked his father's position, sans the hand on his neck. He folded his arms across his chest and indicated the expanse of dust and sand in front of them with a jut of his chin. “I'd say a few miles thataway.”

“Anyone else in the area?” Erik's shade-covered eyes scanned the indicated direction.

Peter shook his head roughly. “Nope.” He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked silver locks. “I passed his place a couple of times. It's just some bunker in a sand dune. But when he got there, it turned into some rundown cabin. Totally creepy looking. Like he doesn't want people around.”

Erik gave a curt nod. “That's our mutant.” He pulled his lean form off the hood, and rounded the vehicle. “Get in. It's time we said hello.”

Peter was already seated inside by the time Erik reached the driver side door. Erik didn't even bat an eye. He just neatly slipped into his seat, and started the engine with a twist of his wrist.

“So, how do you wanna approach this?” Peter was practically humming with excitement. “Do you want to knock on the door while I zip up behind him?” The teen made a karate chopping motion.

Erik couldn't help an amused smirk. “We're not caveman, Peter.”

The teen visibly deflated.

“We're going to offer him an opportunity, and hope he takes it.”

“This blows,” Peter griped.

“ _This_ is how things are going to go, young man.” Erik was proud at how paternal he managed to sound. He was still struggling with the idea that Peter was his biological son, and had yet to show the affection the teen so obviously craved from a father figure. The fact that there were two other children out in the world that were his subconsciously ratcheted his level of anxiety. He could barely be a father to Peter; how was he going to be a father to two others?

Erik had a deep sense of melancholy at the thought that he would always feel this way. He desperately wanted to be the man a child would look up to. A man that  _his_ children would look up to. He knew that what little pieces of his soul that remained after escaping Shaw (the first time) was torn to shreds when his little Anya was killed. Any hope of rekindling it was bereft when Magda left him in a mixture of fear and horror. So, he hoped that what he was made into today would simply be enough.

His heavy foray into his memories and inner introspection was put on hold when Peter tapped him on the shoulder to indicate they should slow down. Erik looked up and could see the outline of a desolate cabin; it was covered in green forestry that belied the surrounding, barren desert.

The rotted, wooden planks looked to be haphazardly nailed back into place from where they had fallen. The half of the tin-covered roof nearest to their approaching vehicle was caved in. Wild, twisting and interlocking vines wrapped around the jagged edges of the building's covering. It looked like a place to be avoided, despite the intriguing oddity of it.

Erik rolled the car to a stop, and parked it. He used his hand to physically turn the car off, and stared up at the building several yards away from them. He fought to tamper the nerves he felt welling inside him, and was silently disgusted for being unable to remove himself from feeling such acute emotions. The mutant prided himself on his aloofness, and always rebuked himself for allowing such basic _human_ emotions to overwhelm him at times.

Despite having his son along, the metal-bender still felt as if he was doing his first recruitment on his own. The lack of a certain, cherubic-face old friend certainly didn't help ease that feeling. He could almost hear the soft _clink_ of glass toasting glass, almost taste the bittersweetness of heady whine, nearly feel a luxuriously thick comforter underneath his backside. The memory was chased away by a distant, free-and-easy laugh.

“Erik? Dude, are we going to do something today or...” Peter trailed off, and peered up at his musing father's stoic face.

“Come.” The demand sounded oddly more Germanic than usual.

They stepped out of the vehicle simultaneously. The sweltering heat cloaked them in a sheen of sweat as they rounded the car together, and stared down the sandy runes to the eradicated cabin. Erik made his way forward without a word, and was pleased to note that Peter had fallen obediently into step. It was about time the teenager start to learn his place.

The cushy mix of dirt and sand impeded their steady strides for a few paces until they managed to find a sure footing. It didn't take long for them to approach the building, and Peter eagerly looked up into his father's face when the older man raised a hand and soundly knocked on the entrance.

Erik was silently glad that the door didn't come flying off its worn and decayed hinges at his forceful knock when a faint rumble interrupted that thought, and caused the duo to look at one another in curiosity. Erik used his powers to slowly turn the knob, and he stepped in with his jaw set and his shoulders squared.

“Hello?”

The interior stunned Erik as he took another step inside. It was as equally run-down and dilapidated at its exterior, which wasn't shocking, but it was ridiculously small. Comically so. There was no space to maneuver any part of one's body without literally running into the heedlessly placed furniture. Erik furrowed his brow in confusion when another step forward caused him to bump into a three-legged table, and it promptly crumbled to the ground in a puff of splinters and dust before disappearing completely. Nothing remained in its place to indicate it was ever there.

“Cool trick,” Erik called aloud. He lifted his hand and waggled his fingers. The original building that they were truly standing within, the bunker made of concrete and metal, grumbled as he teased the framework that held it together.”Would you like to see mine or would you rather come out and talk?”

Peter, who had remained shockingly silent as he closely followed in his father's footsteps, smiled cheekily at the subtle taunt. He poked at a rusted sink pipe, and watched in fascination as it simply ceased to exist. “Groovy,” he drawled happily.

Erik turned on the heel of his shoe to see what his son was getting into, and was pleasantly shocked to find a raven-haired young man standing directly behind the teen. Erik couldn't suppress a grin as he stepped forward with a hand extended for a shake. “Hello. I'm Erik Lehnsherr, and this is Peter. We're here to talk to you about-”

Erik abruptly cut himself off when the mutant's unnerving gaze, which had been resting on Peter's shoulder, snapped to meet his own. Just as Erik opened his mouth to continue, the mutant cocked his head to the side and suddenly decapitated the shorter teen standing before him.

The metal-bender's throat painfully seized as his stomach lurched, and his eyes widened in abject horror. He couldn't seem to understand what had just occurred. He couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that his son's head lolled across the floor while his murderer stood behind him with a interested expression across his face.

Erik forced himself out of his surprise, and let loose a hoarse and wild yell as he raised his hands and used his raging energy to pull out the beams of the bunker wall. The cabin facade blinked away, and left the two standing inside an empty and all concrete room. Not at all phased by the sudden change of scenery, Erik threw his hands forward and forcefully wrapped his beloved metal around the mutant's legs, abdomen, and throat.

He desperately wanted to kill the other man; wanted to pierce the bronze skin with every sliver of available alloy until every individual pore on the smirking mutant seeped with cherry red blood. But he stumbled forward, and dropped to his knees in front of his son's body instead. His limbs ached and trembled as he slowly reached out and touched the back of his son's prone form.

Then he felt the tears. They carved warm rivers of dirt down his dust-streaked face. With his opposite hand, he touched his cheek and pulled it away to see the wetness on his fingertips. As he stared at his fingers in curiosity, knowing something was very wrong in his actions but unable to force his body and mind to align properly, the sound of crashing waves made him look up.

Erik couldn't move when his lean frame was physically slammed to the unforgiving ground by a powerfully strong current of water. He struggled to pull himself back up, to resume the contact he had made with his son, but wave after wave of frothy water lifted and slammed him down again. He choked and sputtered as it forced its way down his throat.

The man knew, deep down inside, that this wasn't right. The other mutant was obviously controlling his reality, but he couldn't seem to make his brain understand the concept as he was dragged underneath the rising tide. His body traitorously convulsed as he fought to break the surface, and get some very much needed air. It didn't take very long for Erik to feel his eyelids grow heavy, and finally flutter close as he lost the battle with his consciousness. He thought it odd, despite his rocky relationship with his son, that it was the boy's voice he heard clear as day as he slipped into the welcoming darkness.

“Dad!”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Peter struggled against his tight, metal bindings to no avail. He had been stunned when Erik's countenance took on an ashen appearance, and then bewildered when his father released a pained cry that tore at his heart. The concrete bunker had groaned as the metal support was torn out, and then sent in his direction. The shock that had finally silenced the talkative teenager turned to genuine fear when Peter realized that the metal-wielder was directing his power towards _him_. The teen was too surprised to summon his own ability as his father encased him in the alloy.

It didn't take long for the teenager to understand that the mutant must have convinced Erik that his son was the enemy. Whether that was the case, or something similar, the teen couldn't be absolutely sure. The one thing Peter _was_ sure about was that his father hadn't decided to kill him outright. That was the only inkling of gratefulness the teen could muster in his current predicament.

Peter watched in awe as his father stumbled towards him, and then promptly fell to his knees. “Dad!” The older man didn't appear to hear him as he reached out with a trembling hand, and touched the top of a chunk of concrete. Tears streaked his face as he grievously stared down at the jagged rock.

Suddenly, his father was thrown by an invisible force. “Dad!” He called out again, watching as his father valiantly fought against an imagined foe. The older man fell onto his back with a pained grunt; tossed like he weighed nothing at all. Blood, bright red and wet, smeared across the ground as a particularly hard twist brought his father's head down hard.

“Damn it,” Peter growled as he glared down at his restraints. He was suddenly startled to hear the distinct sounds of choking, and looked up to see his father thrashing on the solid ground. “Dad?!” The manipulated metal dug into his alabaster skin as he twisted in vain. The older man struggled to drag in air, and was oblivious to his son's shouts.

The mutant, having stood behind Peter, rounded the teen's bound form. He barely looked at Peter as he crossed the small distance between them and Erik. He crouched beside the struggling metal-bender with an odd expression of disinterest and pride. His long, raven hair brushed against Erik's reddening cheeks as he leaned closer. “He's drowning,” the mutant stated.

Peter's eyes bulged at the news. “Well, throw him a lifeline!”

The other man stood, and brushed away a clod of dirt from his shin. “No,” he sighed. “I don't think so. My people have wanted to be left in peace for many years,” he brought his dark eyes up to the teen, “And it seems nobody heeds our warnings.”

“Dude, we only wanted to talk to you!” Peter muffled a cry as he caught a glimpse of his father from around the young mutant's body. The older man didn't appear to be conscious anymore. “C'mon, just let him go, and we'll split from this asylum!”

The mutant tilted his head to the side. His silky hair moved with the motion with incredible ease. “Everybody wants to talk...To ask questions...To place their noses where they don't belong.”

Peter couldn't help a chill from causing gooseflesh to erupt across his skin. He tightened his jaw, and narrowed his eyes at the other before him. “Just do it already!” The stillness of his father hadn't missed his attention. The man lie on the ground; his mouth was parted in a failed attempt to bring life to his aching lungs. “If he's dead,” the teen ground out between clenched teeth, “Then you better kill me too. Otherwise, you'll regret every breath I could breathe that my father couldn't.”

The other mutant raised a sole eyebrow. “That's very big talk for someone unable to do anything about it.” The tone was dry, and emotionless.

“He might not, but we can.”

Peter's eyes shot to the front of the bunker, while the other man turned on his heel in curiosity. He was shocked to see two humans standing in the door frame. They hadn't made a sound to indicate their arrival, and he supposed that was the point. The youngest of the mismatched pair, a little girl that couldn't have been more than ten years of age, took a falsely confident step forward. The man with her, wearing a long pea-coat in the ridiculous heat, grinned after her.

The teen couldn't immediately tell if the pair were mutants, but his question was put to rest when the youngest of the duo squeezed her eyes shut and let loose a concussive blast that sent the raven-haired mutant on his back. Peter felt the breeze tickle his cheekbones as he teetered back a few steps before falling down himself with a surprised o _omph_.

“Oops,” the girl said in worry as she rushed to his side. She threw herself down, wincing when her bony knees made contact with the concrete. She peered at him with large, green eyes before turning back to her companion. “Jase? Would you mind?” She jerked her head to the moaning mutant lying a few feet beside them. She turned back to Peter. “Hi.”

The young man strode toward them. He lifted the mutant off the floor by grasping the collar of his shirt, and then delivered a punch to the other man's chin, effectively knocking him out cold. Jase released his tight grip, and watched in mild amusement as the other slumped to the ground. He idly scratched at his wiry, neatly-trimmed mutton chops.

“Can you get me out of these?” Peter asked as he resumed his earlier struggle. Erik had yet to draw a visible breath, and the teen was beginning to think his father had actually drowned in his imagined world. “Please?”

“I can try,” the girl said with hesitation. “I'm still kind of new to this.” She stood and took a few steps back. With a pink tongue peeking out, she lifted both of her hands and started to move and twist them in the air. The metal groaned as it slowly unwound from his body.

As soon as he was free, Peter blinked from their view only to reappear by his father's side. He took hold on one of the man's broad shoulders, and gave a shake. “Dad?” He leaned down and pressed his ear just above his father's mouth. The faintest of breath brushed across his lobe, and he grinned. “He's still breathing.”

The girl smiled at his exuberance, and slowly stood. “Awesome. Does that mean he's going to okay, Jason?” Her smile faltered at the possible implication of any other outcome.

“We'll have to get him out of here, and take a better look, bunny.” He pulled at the cuff of his thick jacket, and huffed. “It's too hot to discuss anything more here.”

Peter audibly scoffed as he spared the man a glance. “You think, Charles Dickens? We're in a _desert_ , man.” After a haughty expression was his only reply, Peter rolled his eyes and motioned towards his unconscious father. “At least give me a hand.”

Despite clearly not wanting to lift more than a pinky, Jason made his way over and knelt down on the opposite side of the teen. He placed a hand under Erik's knee and another under his arm, before motioning with his head for Peter to do the same. When the teenager complied, he asked, “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“I'll start the car,” the girl said as she practically skipped towards the entrance.

“Once we get situated,” Peter grunted under the weight of his father as he stood, “You're going to have to tell me why you're traveling around with a little kid.”

“Not that it's any of your business,” Jason snapped, breath equally as uneven, “But she pretty much adopted me-” Peter's snort interrupted him, but he continued, “As an older brother or guardian.” They turned and maneuvered through the door with Erik between them. The harsh sun glinted off the roof of their car. “We heard about mutant factions forming, and thought we tried to find them.”

“You found us instead.” Peter glanced up and let loose a sigh. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Thank the kid,” was his reply as they passed her waiting by the open back-door. They none-too-gently manhandled Erik's slumped form into the back seat. When they finally situated him, they pulled away with twin ragged breaths. “Let's go before the other one wakes up.”

“I'll drive,” Peter suggested as he rounded the back of the vehicle.

“No, I will.” The older man glared over the hood of the car.

“We'll get there faster if I do,” Peter argued. He placed his hands atop the car, and winced at the heat his palms met with. “Trust me.”

“You don't know where we're going,” the girl replied. Peter couldn't see her from where he stood, but he glared in her general direction.

Jason laughed and tousled her hair. “Kid's right. C'mon, we're wasting time. Your old man needs a place to rest, and that other guy didn't seem quite keen on us barging in on his party.”

Peter scowled as he stalked back to the other side of the car. He pointed at Jason as the man moved to the driver's side. “Fine, but I get to control the radio.”


	7. Chapter 7

 “Are you hungry?”

Peter's flat expression animated at the sudden question. His unfocused gaze snapped towards the open doorway. A pair of inquisitive green eyes, belonging to to his apparent savior, hooded in shyness at the swift attention. The teen blinked once, hard, and then shook his head.

“No.” He sat atop the cushioned arm of a maroon recliner he had pushed from underneath the sole bay window. Jason and himself had placed his father on the bedroom's queen-sized bed an hour earlier, where Peter had since then trained his eyes on the slow rise-and-fall of his father's chest. The older man had yet to stir, and every passing minute that he didn't made Peter all the more anxious.

The little girl frowned. She raised metal-bending hands to the long hair that was resting over her shoulder, and began to twist a few strands between her thin fingers. “Are you sure? Jason always say-”

“Look,” Peter couldn't quite keep the annoyance out his tone, “I'm not hungry.” The girl, who had told him her name was Lorna, winced at his sharp tongue. Peter's unintentionally dark glare softened, and he sighed. “I'm sorry, Lorne. I'm just tired.”

Her expression brightened microscopically. “And worried,” she pointed out. Her voice, still highly-pitched with youth, was noticeably subdued but matter-of-fact in tone.

Peter's glower melted into a slight grimace. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

The child seemed visibly puzzled by his choice of words, and took a steps further into the room. The room itself was pleasant enough for a couple days stay, but nothing remotely spectacular. The walls were a simple off-white; the thin carpet a charcoal gray. The furniture was all the same maroon color, with the exception of the room's standard dresser and night table. They were made of a polished oak. There was one bed, and two doors in this particular room. One door led to a bathroom, while the other led to a short hall that revealed an open space for a small kitchen, living, and dining area.

The child/adult duo had come across this relatively decent hotel when they had stopped for rest a town over, right before their impromptu rescue mission a day later. Jason had managed to convince the frumpy concierge that the large sum of cash he had forked over was actually real. It wasn't. Peter didn't enjoy the fact that he was impressed by the self-named Mastermind. The illusionist seemed pleased by the fact.

Currently, Peter could hear Jason preparing some food. He had left for supplies almost as soon as Erik's lolling head hit the crisp pillowcase, and had only just returned with nourishments. The rustling of plastic bags nearly drowned out the sounds of Erik's slow and deep breaths, but Peter strained to catch the soft puffs to convince himself the other man was still alive.

Lorna's sneakers, scuffling against the floor as she shuffled forward, caught Peter's attention. He dragged his eyes away from his father's chest to her face. He noticed little details that he hadn't seen before. Her hair, for example, was very clearly dyed and recently so. The teen couldn't make out the original color, but could see the telltale smudges of brown dye against the girl's temple and at the nape of her neck where her long hair didn't quite cover.

He had seen that her eyes were green earlier, but hadn't noticed how incredibly bright they were. It was almost unnatural, and more than a little unnerving. They were lime-green orbs that appeared large in comparison to the rest of her facial features. Peter assumed it was because she was still growing into her body. Either way, they were fascinating to stare into.

“You have awesome eyes,” he found himself proclaiming.

They widened in surprise at the praise, then creased when she smiled toothily. There was an adorable gap between her two front teeth. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” The teen dug his heels against the floor, and used the position to launch himself into the seat. He bounced with the force, before settling with a grin. “Come on in. Tell me how you and this _Mastermind_ met.” The sarcastic edge to his voice didn't deter the girl from racing over to his side. She scrambled over the arm of his recliner, and perched happily with swinging legs.

“I ran away from my foster home,” she started before a slight hitch of her breath caused Peter to cock his head to the side. He was almost sure she was going to start crying until she faintly stated, “I shouldn't have said that.”

It took Peter a moment longer than necessary to realize that she was worried about him turning her in. The thought was ludicrous, and he found himself laughing aloud. If only she knew the sort of things he got into. “I'm not going to tell anyone, Lorne,” he reassured her.

She still appeared a little put off by his laughter, but her slight grin returned to her cherubic face. “I have to be careful about what I say. My foster siblings always tattled on me, even when I didn't do anything. I think it was because of my hair. They didn't like it. So, I guess they didn't like me.”

“Aw, c'mon.” Peter shifted in his seat before he reached up and touched a tendril of her naturally straight hair. “I bet it looked gorge, and they were just jealous.” He rubbed the strands between the knuckles of his fingers. “What color is it really?”

It was Lorna's turn to shift, but for different reasons. She was at the tender age where girls became highly self-conscious about their appearance, and how others reacted. Despite being a blunt and crass teenage boy, Peter knew this without a doubt. “Hey,” he chuffed, and pointed at his own silver locks. “Mine isn't exactly all-natural either.”

“I see it,” she giggled. “I dig it.” She picked at a few wispy strands of her own, and stared down at it. “Mine was green. Like, dark green. It was weird.”

Peter shrugged. “That's not weird at all.” He exaggerated the waggle of his gray eyebrows. “I think it's actually kind of _groovy_.”

Lorna placed a hand over her mouth, and stifled a snort. “Totally far out, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter drawled. “Outta sight, even.”

“Sick.”

Peter laughed. “Yeah, sick.”

“I _feel_ sick,” a deeper voice intoned from the door. The pair simultaneously looked to see Jason standing in the hall. He had one brow cocked in derision. “Come eat, bunny.”

She sighed, and acted as if sliding off the arm of the recliner was a laborious task. She slunk past her pseudo-older brother with a mirthful grin. He returned the expression and added a playful tap to the back of her head, before turning and narrowing his eyes on the teen. “You joining?”

“No,” Peter purposelessly snorted. “Wouldn't it be just _awful_ if I did?”

Peter's obvious attempt at a posh tone of voice didn't go pass the other mutant. “Are you making fun of me, kid? I'm pretty sure we just saved your asses.”

Using his ability, Peter zipped behind the taller mutant. He tapped the man's shoulder and grinned up at him. When the older man scowled and made to lunge at him, the teenager zipped back to his original position in the recliner. He held a sandwich in his hand, and was happily munching when he pretended to only just realize that Jason was glaring at him.

“Hello, old chap.”

“You're a brat,” Jason growled before turning on his heel and leaving.

Peter snorted, and cast a glance toward his father. The man didn't seem to be moving anytime soon, so Peter decided to join the others. He raced out of the room, and sat next to the surprised Lorna. He grinned at her, and nabbed a chip from her paper plate. She giggled infectiously.

“I thought you weren't joining us,” Jason stated in clipped tones as he took his seat across the little girl. His gleaming white teeth tore into the soft bread.

Peter shrugged. “Clearly, I changed my mind.”

Before Jason could offer any other retort, Peter nudged Lorna with his shoulder in a playful manner. “Hey, you didn't get to finish your story.”

Lorna swiped at a stray crumb with the back of her hand from her lips. Jason frowned at her motion, but had his mouth full of food and was unable to chastise her. “I tried to pickpocket Jason, but the wallet wasn't real. He's a real mastermind,” she said with a scrunched up nose. “He bought me food, and I accidentally used my powers to lift up a fork. So, he told me to stick with him. I didn't have anywhere else to go,” she shrugged, and popped another chip in her mouth, “So I stayed.”

They continued eating for a little while longer, until Lorna finished off the last of her sandwich and proceeded to tug on the sleeve of Peter's tee. “Hey, Pie-” Her face flushed red, and she clamped her free hand over her mouth. Her eye twitched at her failing attempt to not giggle.

Peter threw his head back and laughed. “I guess you're ready for dessert, huh?”

She nodded vigorously. “I wanted to say Peter, but pie came out instead.”

“Peter Pie,” the teen crowed. He licked at his plump lips. “Sounds delicious.”

Jason rolled his eyes, and pushed his chair away from the table. He gathered his empty plate, and snagged Lorna's as well. As he made his way to the kitchen, Lorna tugged on Peter's sleeve again. “Hey, Pie,” she grinned, “What powers does your daddy have? Does he do the same thing you do?”

Peter's formulating grin at the girl's nickname lasted for mere seconds before something clicked in his mind. The child was clearly female. She was from a foster home. She was also around the same age as one of the two girls they were searching for. And, what really made the teen rigid in his seat, she was a magnetic manipulator. Exactly like Erik was. Peter's eyes widened at the possible implication.

“Peter?” Lorna's green orbs grew large in worry. “Are you okay?”

“There's no way,” he breathlessly claimed.


	8. Chapter 8

Jason crumpled up the two paper plates he held in his hands, and tossed them into the plastic trash bin. He ran a hand over his whiskers, in hopes of shaking out any crumbs of food that may have gotten stuck, when he overheard his charge ask the annoying teenager if he was okay. With a frown, Jason stepped around the kitchen island that separated the dining room from the kitchen and folded his arms across his narrow chest.

“Bunny, something wrong?”

The little girl turned in her seat, and looked back at him with ridiculously large eyes. Her small hands gripped the back of the chair she sat on in an impossibly tight grip. “I think I broke him,” she exclaimed in awe. She faced the teen again, and stared.

Jason rolled his eyes as he rested his hip against the corner of the counter top. He found himself doing that more and more when in the presence of the teenage mutant. He waved a hand in the air as he claimed, “He was already broken when we found him, Lorna. ”

“Dude,” Peter drawled in a dumbfounded voice. “I think- I'm pretty sure- You're my sister.”

Jason's normally stoic facade faltered as his eyebrows shot up. Lorna's mouth drooped until it was gaping towards the teen. Jason gathered his resolve faster than the little girl, and ignored the want to snort. “I don't think that is possible.”

“Oh, it's totally possible.” The teen began ticking off his upheld fingers as he said, “She's adopted. She's about the right age. She can control metal. Like her dad. Like _my_ dad.” Peter grinned up towards the skeptical man. “It fits, man!”

A retort was ready on Jason's lips when it slowly dawned on him; he didn't know any mutants that could control metal except for the one: the infamous Magneto that was set to kill the President of the United States on live television not very long ago. It wasn't as if it was impossible for others to have some of the same mutations, but there was something to what the teen was saying. There were too many things that made sense as he continued to excitedly speak.

“We were looking for you! It  _ has _ to be you!” Peter's eyes twinkled in his happiness. It was hard to not feel the genuine excitement that rolled off him.

Lorna's shy grin blossomed into an overbearingly happy smile. “I have a brother! Jase, I have a brother! And a dad!” Her eyes widened. “I have a dad, and a brother. I have a family!”

Jason stifled any comments he felt arise, and simply offered a small smile for her. It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility, but he didn't want to encourage her hopes and later see them dashed by too many coincidences. He turned his back on the jubilant pair, and stalked off towards the kitchen. His meager sandwich didn't quite fill him up, and he figured he could whip up a dessert to celebrate their happiness, and to keep himself busy.

* * *

With a sharp gasp, Erik's eyes flew open and he attempted to pull himself into an upright position. The sudden move dizzied the man, and he slumped back against the pillows behind his head with a slight pant. He raised a trembling hand to his face, and vigorously rubbed his right eye. He had an impressively sharp headache that seemed to originate in that specific area. When he pulled his shaky appendage away, his weary eyes caught sight of his long and smooth fingers.

He frowned and pulled himself up onto his elbows; his eyes narrowing on his fingers with renewed focus. They looked normal, and it bothered him. They should have been shriveled and pruned after the amount of time he spent being pummeled by water. Erik pushed himself back against the headboard; a thick pillow that was more for decoration than comfort cushioned his aching spine.

Erik looked down at his clothing, and was disturbed to see that they were no more wrinkled than they were earlier. They didn't feel stiff; as they would have had they been soaked in water and then air dried. No, they felt the same. His prismatic eyes drifted from his long torso to his legs to the closed door of his hotel room. Where he could clearly hear laughter on the other side.

Erik's eyes widened in alarm. “Peter!” He threw his legs over the side of the bed, nearly toppled over in his haste, and threw open the bedroom door without physically touching it. The metal-wielder had no idea that the distance between the opposite wall and the door were literally within two feet of each other. He also didn't even know that there was a wall there. Which was his brief, mental excuse to himself as he ran face first into it, and stumbled back with a Germanic curse.

The blindingly white bursts of pain dissipated as he turned on his heel, and stumbled down the short hall, one hand braced against the surface for support. He pulled himself up short when Jason cautiously stepped around the corner. The younger man was wielding a knife, and Erik's panic doubled at the flash of metal. He reached out with his hand, and used his ability to yank the object out of the man's hand, and embed it in the wall with a soft  _ thunk _ . 

“Whoa, whoa,” Jason held up his hands in a non-threatening gesture as the older man bore down on him in a nearly fanatic state. Blood was dripping down his pale face, and his pupils were blown wide in a side effect of a more than possible concussion.

“Where's my son!” Erik snarled. He tightened his grip on the man's lapels, and pulled him clean off the floor. He turned with the man in his hands, and slammed him against the wall. With both of his hands holding the younger mutant off the floor, Erik used his power to pull the knife out of the wall and point it at the other's face. “ _Where_!?”

“Dad!” Peter raced to his father's side, and placed a hand on the older man's bicep. “I'm here. It's okay.” Peter gently patted the rigid muscle underneath his hand. “I'm here.”

Erik's unfocused gaze tore itself off of the mutant against the wall to the teenager at his side. The indents between his brows deepened, and his mouth slackened in his confusion. He knew he wanted his son, but he didn't believe his child was really there. He didn't believe his son was still alive. But there he was, concern radiating off of him so strongly it was as if Erik was the telepath and he could feel the deep swell of worry from the teen.

Erik released his hold on the mutant in front of him, and didn't bother to see where the knife clattered on the floor. He inquisitively looked down at the hand on his arm, and adopted a puzzled expression as he traced his gaze from the hand to his son's face.

_ Alive, he's alive. My son, he's here. He's alive.  _

The metal-bender tentatively reached out a hand and cupped Peter's smooth cheek in his calloused hand. The concerned expression on the teen's face melted away into one of understanding. He had almost pulled away from the unfamiliar touch, but his father needed to see he truly was okay, and he secretly wanted the affection. 

“Pie?” The soft question emanated from directly behind the teenager.

Peter turned sideways, and offered Erik a clear view of Lorna. It was like a douse of liquid ice down Erik's back. He snapped his hand away, and took a faltered step back. He bumped into the mutant behind him, and made his way back into the bedroom. The breath in his lungs stuttered on its way out, and he felt the edges of darkness start to overwhelm him.

Erik stumbled and fell to his aching knees, one hand blindly clutching the comforter of the bed. He used the thick blanket to pull himself back to his feet, and used the momentum to turn and sit on the edge of the mattress. When he blinked away the spots in his vision, and managed to ease his breathing back to normal, he caught sight of his son standing in the doorway.

Peter zipped into the bedroom, and threw himself to his jean-clad knees by his father's side. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Erik's red-rimmed eyelids fluttered. His voice was rough and devoid of emotion. “This isn't real.” His stern gaze was narrowed in on a spot on the carpeted floor.

Peter's sharp laugh startled him. “What are you talking about, dude? This is totally real. I'm real, you're real, she's real. Hey,” He placed a hand on his father's knee, “Are you in shock? Do you need to do that heavy breathing into a bag thing? I don't think we have any brown bags. Does it have to be brown? What about that Lamaze stuff pregnant chicks do? He-he-hoo. He-he-hoo.”

_ The girl. The little girl and her brilliantly green eyes. Could she be his girl? What had Charles said about a girl with green eyes? _

“Erik,” Peter's voice was tight. “That reality-bender isn't here.  _ We _ are.”

Erik's eyes cautiously met the teen's brown ones. “We're here.”

Peter nearly felt like he was speaking to a child. He met his father's stare head on and nodded vigorously. His next words felt slow, in stark contrast to his usual demeanor. “She looks like you, doesn't she?” Peter could now easily recall the crease-worn, yellowed photograph of his family. He had noted that he bore more of a resemblance to his mother than Erik. Having the two stand so close to one another made it easy to see how closely Lorna looked like her father. It was no wonder that Erik honed in on that at first glance. That, and her unique colored eyes.

Erik's expression, blank in his attempt to feel nothing, to  _ be _ nothing, slowly melted away as understanding dawned on him. His pragmatic brain haltingly came back online as he took hold of his bleeding emotions and fully looked into his son's dark eyes. 

“She looks like you,” Peter repeated. His hand, warm where it rested on Erik's knee, pressed down in an attempt to ground his father in reality. “She's real.”

“That's her.” Erik's voice was surprisingly controlled.

Having sensed his father was coming back to his self, Peter's previously tense posture loosened and relaxed. A wide, beam of a smile pulled his lips away from his teeth and his eyes lit with the eagerness of someone that had grand news. “Dude,” Peter started, “That's your daughter.”

The statement was followed by an excited puff of laughter.

And by Erik's completely floored expression.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Erik sat on the edge of a cream-colored porcelain tub. The curved lip of the bathtub was slick with condensation from the hot water it was full with, but pleasantly cool underneath his bare thighs. A slight steam tickled his exposed back as he continued to sit on the ceramic in deep thought.

Peter had just told him that the little female version of himself was the young daughter he was in search of. Erik had refrained from pressing for more answers, and accepted the news as fact. The possibility of Lorna not being his child didn't even cross the metal-bender's mind. Her physicality was good enough to sate his myriad of questions for the next hour or so.

His son had sensed his need to be alone, and was shockingly compliant. Erik had expected the chatterbox to emerge and pepper him with every word the little girl had said to him from the second they had spoken to each other till her last uttered word several minutes before. But he was relieved to see his son eager to speak to the child herself, and not to him _about_ her. 

The sudden coolness at his back jerked Erik to the present, and he glanced over his shoulder to the clear water below. It glistened back up at him in silence. Erik took a deep breath as he stood and fully turned to stare down at the harmless liquid. His focus was completely encompassed by the slight sway of the water as it simply sat in the tub.

Erik suddenly felt angry at himself. He was _not_ afraid of water. He was  Magneto, for Christ's sake. This wasn't the first time that he and water had interacted. He could easily recall trying to lift a submarine from an ocean a decade ago, and a furry Beast holding him under this past year.

He tore off his briefs and kicked them to the side with jerky movements. He lifted a leg, hesitated when it hovered above the water for a second, and then plunged it into the warmth with bated breath. His skin felt tight against the tenseness of his muscles. He waited with almost held breath for the water to rise up and overtake him in its powerful embrace. The water did nothing more but lap at his calf from its sudden immersion, and Erik could feel the relief loosen his ridiculously rigid posture. He placed his second leg into the bathtub, and eased himself into a sitting position.

The tub wasn't long enough for Erik to comfortably stretch them out, so he kept them bent and spread wide. The pressure point in his knees started to ache from where they were pressed against the ceramic, but Erik ignored it in favor of closing his eyes and allowing the warmth to caress his skin.

The water was almost becoming soothing to the mutant. He leaned his head back, and rested it against the folded towel he had placed there earlier. It smelled like fresh detergent, and Erik resisted the urge to shift his head until his nose was pressed into the coarse fabric. Instead, he languidly rested his left hand above his navel, and his right just above that.

Erik let out a deep, contented sigh. He felt the water melt away the aches in his bones, and the worry from his mind. He almost laughed at how he had reacted when he had first dipped in leg in, but settled for a derisive wrinkle of his nose instead. The walls of the tub faded away behind his closed eyes, and he simply floated in the cocooning heat.

* * *

“Can you tell me about our mom?” Lorna seemed hesitant. Peter couldn't blame her. This was a lot to take in at her age, and she  _had_ just witnessed the man that was supposedly her father run away with blood smeared across his face.

Peter tipped his head back against the top of the sofa. Lorna, standing behind him, giggled at his upside down face. “I wish I could, Lorne.” He pulled his head back up when Lorna's amusement dissipated at his apparent lack of knowledge. “You and I have different moms though.”

She rounded the couch, and plopped herself next to her newfound brother. Peter glanced over, and was reminded of the adoptive sister he had left behind. Suddenly feeling an overwhelming sadness at the loss of that relationship, he reached over and easily plucked the girl from her seat and placed her on his lap. She laughed and looked over her shoulder to see his beam.

He gently grasped her thin hips, and hauled her back to his side. She bounced atop the cushion, before promptly throwing her legs over his, and allowing him to drape his arm around her slender shoulders. “Can you tell me about our dad?”

Peter's beam faltered. “I can tell you what little I do know about him.”

Confused, she peered up at him with her stunningly green eyes. Her dark hair brushed against his bare arm with the movement, and made him shiver at the ticklish sensation it provoked.

Peter, having seen the puzzled expression, let loose a beleaguered sigh. He wasn't at all annoyed with the little girl; she had done nothing to him. But the idea that he knew next to nothing about his own father bothered him. He had a few solid excuses as to why, but the past weeks traveling with Erik should have enlightened the teen to more facts about his father's life. It didn't.

“I don't know where to start,” Peter admitted when Lorna's expectant gaze didn't waver from him. He offered her a meager shrug, and looked down at her now familiar face. So much like Erik's face. He thought of his own, and the mother he took after in looks. The photograph.

He grinned, and she mimicked the expression back. “I can start with the picture.”

Sensing a story, Lorna shifted in place until she was more comfortable, and waiting for her brother to start his tale. Jason's dicing had resumed after his little altercation with Erik, and now filled the open space with his soft chops.

“So, one day I found this totally old picture when I was doing my chores. Right? Chores are a bummer, I know. I thought it was going to turn into dust if I touched it too hard. I showed my mom, the lady who adopted me, and she said that I had it ever since she picked me out. I thought maybe I had stolen it, because I do do that. Steal things. Like cigarettes, shoes, chocolate. You know? That kind of stuff. Not really huge things. I stole a car once. That was awesome.”

The chopping had stopped, and Jason cleared his throat. Peter realized he was rambling, and was secretly amused that Jason had apparently been listening in. The sound resumed when Peter continued. “Anyway, I couldn't really do anything with the picture. But one day these three dudes come to my house and say I need to help them break out the man who killed the President from the Pentagon.”

“No  _way_ ,” Lorna gasped. 

“ _Right_ ? So, we go in and do some awesome bad-assery. I'm talking diversions, costume changes, the whole deal. Right? I go, like, a million feet underground where they're keeping this dude and I'm dressed like a security guard. Totally awesome. I put my hands on the glass, like this,” He lifted his hands straight up into the air, palms facing the opposite direction, “And I use my power to break the glass.”

The chopping had stopped again, and was instead followed by feet rounding the counters and striding towards them. Jason appeared in their line of sight, and leaned his hip against the dining table they had previously eaten at. He motioned towards Peter.

“Yeah, so he pulls himself out of his prison. There's literally nothing in it. It's all white, and empty except for a blanket thing or whatever for his bed. The alarms are going crazy, but I grab him and speed down the hall and into the elevator. There were, like, a dozen guards waiting in the hall, but we blew past them so fast that they fell over.” Peter laughed at the memory.

He adopted Erik's gruff tone of voice as he said, “'I know crazy,'” and laughed again.

“Then what happened?” Lorna's eyes were wide in her awe.

“The doors open, and this British dude that I came with  _pops_ him right in the face! Oh, man, I've never seen a guy's head snap like that. Charles, the British guy, says-” The trio's head snapped towards the bedroom when a loud splash of water echoed down the hall. Lorna pushed herself off the edge of the couch and wobbled in place. She didn't appear sure as to what she should do.

Jason gently grasped her hand, and pulled her into the kitchen. He placed her atop the counter and handed her plastic measuring cups. “Peter will take care of whatever it is. And you take care of me, Bunny.” He offered her a bland smile.

Peter had already sped the short distance from the sofa to the bedroom. Finding it empty, aside from Erik's clothes atop the mattress, Peter raced to the bathroom door and pressed his ear against it. The splashing increased, and was followed by water hitting the linoleum floor. Skin squeaked as it rubbed against wet porcelain.

Concerned, the teen used all of his weight to push against the door. It didn't appear to be locked, but stuck. He bodily shouldered it until it flew open and slammed against the wall so hard he was sure he splintered it. However, the door was of no worry when he saw the cause of all the commotion.

Erik's head thrashed back and forth, as a deep indentation formed between his furrowed brows. His teeth were bared in a silent snarl, and his body so rigid that Peter knew he was going to feel sore for days. Peter raised a hand towards the man, but didn't know how he should wake him. He didn't appear hurt, but rather in the throes of a nightmare.

Just before he could come to any sort of a conclusion, Erik's head dipped underneath the water, and he exploded upward as he unconsciously inhaled. Erik threw himself over the side of the tub, and ignored the way the ceramic dug into his heaving abdomen as he gagged and coughed. Rivulets of water raced down his jaw from his sodden hair, and tears stung his red-rimmed eyes as he struggled to steady his erratic breathing.

“Get...out.” Erik's bloodshot eyes burned a hole through the sneakers Peter wore.

“Are you-”

“Out!” Erik swiped a hand in the air, and the tub's faucet made a horrible sound as it was instantly malformed. The teen jumped, and raced out of the room. Erik let his body sag against the edge of the tub. His arm dangled out over the side in an awkward position. His fingers grazed through a puddle of water that had formed, and he splayed his hand directly above it.

“Damn,” he muttered into the damp skin of his forearm.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Fully dressed, Erik stood in the open doorway of the hotel bedroom, but made no move to step out. He placed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and bowed his head as he listened to the soft murmurs of the others. The delicious aroma of baked pie piqued his hunger, but he couldn't seem to make his feet go. He could feel the slight tremble of muscle in his sinewy legs; he felt as if he had spent the day swimming in an unforgiving ocean.

With great effort, Erik removed his hands from the comfort of the pockets, and forced himself out into the hall. He had been staring at the bare wall for the better part of ten minutes, so he knew now that it was most definitely there when he finally moved. His nose still ached from the impact, but he was glad to note that it wasn't broken.

He strode towards the others, and slowed to a stop when they looked up from their dessert and leveled him with varying degrees of concern. He was, once again, immensely glad that he didn't have any telepathic tendencies. That kind of ability could only be considered a curse if he could actually feel the overwhelming emotions directed at him...because of  _him_. He ignored the slight twitch in his eye.

"There's a plate in the microwave if you're hungry," the previously knife-wielding mutant stated. He appeared young, with wiry mutton chops, and an upturned nose that fit his posh accent.

"Thanks," Erik said mildly. He made no move to get it, though. His eyes had fastened on Lorna's face. The child, in turn, had done the same.

"It's not nice to stare, Bunny."

The affectionate nickname tore Erik's astonished gaze from the familiar face and towards the other mutant. "Who are you again?" His tone of voice wasn't unkind, but the steel behind the words brooked no argument either.

The man appeared miffed at his lack of manners. He stood up and held out a hand to shake. Erik took a few steps closer to the table, but made no other move to greet him. The mutant lowered his hand. "I'm Jason Wyngarde, and this is Lorna-"

"I know who she is."

Jason frowned. "You may be her father,  _Magneto_ , but that doesn't mean you  _know_  her."

Erik's head tilted a fraction to the side, and he lazily lifted a hand towards the mutant. He accessed his ability, and pinned the younger man down into his seat by the buckle of his thin belt. His pale blue eyes narrowed in fury, but most of it was directed inwardly.

A hand too small to be Peter's found itself on Erik's forearm. He glanced down in surprise to see that Lorna had risen and now stood by his side. "Please don't. He helped me."

Erik lowered his arm, and let it rest by his side. Jason made no move to retaliate, and Peter watched the exchange with a mild smirk and a mouthful of delicious pie. Erik knelt down and touched the hem of the young girl's shirt. He looked up into her green eyes, and felt a sense of jubilation well up inside his chest. Her lips were thicker than his, but she had his eyes (aside from the obvious coloring her mutation allowed her.) Her nose was rounded with a certain pertness, but was his nonetheless. She also possessed his strong chin and jawline, but that too was softened by her youth and femininity.

The metal-bender delicately reached up and traced her soft cheek with his index finger. She leaned into the touch, and smiled at the affection. Erik beamed in all his toothy glory. He held out his hand, and looked down as she grasped it as tightly as she could. He shook.

"I'm Erik Lehnsherr. Your father."

"I'm Lorna. Your daughter."

"I figured it out first," Peter announced from where he sat. Whipped cream framed his lips. He slipped his thumb into his mouth, and suckled on the appendage with delight. He kicked his chair back so that it precariously rested its weight on its back two legs. He shook the nearly empty can of cream, before placing the nozzle in his mouth and spurting the last of it within.

Erik shook his head, but found he had nothing to say. He stood, and winced as his knees protested the movement, and rested a hand atop Lorna's dark hair. He tousled a few of the strands, and gently moved his fingers down until he gripped the ends of her long mane. He held up the hair to her eyes, and shook his head. "No more of this, understand? You have no reason to be ashamed of yourself. You're beautiful, Lorna." He released the strands of hair. "Exceptional."

She peered up at him from underneath long lashes, and nodded in an almost bashful manner. Her cheeks were tinged pink, but her lips were quirked into a smile of unfettered adoration. Erik chuffed her chin, and turned to face the glowering Jason. "Thank you for looking after her."

Jason's brow jumped in his surprise, but he nodded in reply.

"Are you hungry?" Lorna asked as Erik took the seat next to the one she had been on.

"Famished," he said.

She happily skipped to the kitchen to retrieve his meal as he turned and set his elbows on the table. He leveled the young man adjacent to him with his stern glare. "Jason, are you one of us?"

Peter stopped munching, and allowed the chair to fall heavily to the ground. He faced the man as well, and took another forkful of food.

"I am," Jason replied calmly.

"What canya do?" Peter asked around the mush.

"I'm a bit of a reality-bender myself." Jason swiftly stood. Without a single shimmer or physical morph of any kind, he was suddenly a shorter, slight man with matted gray hair.

Erik was floored by the seamless shift. His mind's eye supplied the vision of this older man, but there was nothing to indicate a change had taken place. He was just different without so much as a blink of an eye. Peter dropped his fork and slowly applauded as Erik deferred to the man's power with a slight tilt of his head.

"That's remarkable," Erik claimed. "How does it work?"

Jason, with a proud smirk claiming his once again youthful countenance, sat back down in all his posh-like grace. "It's psionic. I am able to telepathically send an image into your mind, and make you see images that do not exist in reality. It's the same for smells, sounds, and so on."

"Groovy," Peter scoffed.

Beeping indicated that the meal was done being microwaved, and was shortly followed by Lorna emerging from the kitchen with a paper plate ladened with chips, a sandwich, and a thick slice of pie. Peter laughed, and motioned towards the plate with his fork.

"You didn't mic all of that, did you?"

Lorna scowled, and placed the meal in front of Erik. "No, you dork. I microwaved the pie first, and then put the rest of the stuff back on. I'm not a complete goon."

Erik couldn't contain a chuckle, and felt the fondness well up within him once again. He had two of his children with him. He could scarcely believe it. He took a hefty bite of the sandwich, and hummed his contentment. "My compliments to the chef."

Jason nodded curtly. He stood, and snatched the empty can from Peter's reaching grasp. "If you're quite finished." Peter huffed indignantly, and made a grabby motion with his outstretched hand. "Aw, c'mon, Mastermind. I think there was a little bit at the bottom."

The whiskered man shook his head, and made a point to let the can hit the bottom of the trash bin a little harder than necessary. The mutant was fully aware that the teen could have easily raced to the kitchen and grabbed the can before it even left his hand, but they both knew it was a fruitless task.

Erik forked the last bite of pie into his mouth, and dabbed at his lips with a napkin Lorna quietly provided him with. He smiled down at her, and she beamed right back. "I guess I was more than famished."

"Is that even possible?" Lorna asked innocently.

Peter glanced over, his eyes bouncing off the inked forearm, but he said nothing. For every childish moment the teen may have, he usually showed a brief moment of tact not long after. Erik was grateful the teen refrained from comment as he nodded in confirmation at Lorna's question. "Yes."

Lorna seemed to sense an unspoken conversation that she was not party to, and didn't offer to continue that trail of talk. Instead, she pushed her recently topped off glass of water towards Erik.

He looked down at her hand, and caught sight of the drink. His body immediately tensed at the object, but he shook it off with the vigor of a survivor, and took a thankful sip from the proffered beverage. "Thank you," he murmured kindly. He couldn't meet her eyes. He had a brief moment of panic from a goddamn glass of water, and was immensely grateful that the others didn't seem to notice.

Jason returned empty handed, and took his seat. He folded his hands atop the glass table, and looked over at the father/daughter pair. "So, what are your plans now?"

"I think," Erik replied as he copied the other man's position, "The same could be asked of you. I'm starting a Brotherhood, if you will; a group of similarly minded mutants. As it stands, the only members are the three of us."

There was no question as to whether or not Lorna was to return to her previous life. Whatever she had known before, was no longer. She was the daughter of Erik Lehnsherr, and she was to remain by his side from here on out. The young man, who viewed himself as an older brother to her, completely understood that fact. It was a matter of whether or not he was to enlist with them as well.

"I see."

"I will understand if you wish to return to your previous life," Erik commented, "I'm merely offering you a role in something that has the potential to be very powerful."

"Powerful?" A greedy look overtook the man's face. He spread his palms out, and smiled. "Now how can I refuse an offer like that?"


	11. Chapter 11

It had been two uneventful days since Erik found out that he was saved by a fellow mutant, and his own daughter. It didn't escape his sense of irony when he recalled that he was essentially saved by his son as well. Ten years of solitary confinement called for a savior, and that was what he received in spades...and then some.

As it was, Erik was now driving along a miraculously smooth road towards their next destination with two additions to his fledging Brotherhood. He didn't much care for the mutant dubbed Mastermind, but could admit that he had a grudging respect towards the other man when it came to his mutation. He could be a very, very powerful mutant someday. It was better to have him as an ally, than a foe. As for Lorna, well, he was smitten with the adorable child. Erik was sure he would have felt that way regardless of his relation to her, but as it stood, it didn't hurt.

Although, at the moment, Erik was beginning to feel the beginning of a headache from the incessant chatter the two youngsters of their little group managed to maintain. Erik didn't feel at all bad for mentally referring to his teen of a son as a youngster. The boy had the maturity level of one.

“Check out that diner!” Lorna cried as the building loomed ahead.

“Awesome,” Peter claimed as he playfully climbed up behind her. “I'm starving.”

“Me too,” Lorna admitted.

The Victorian-looking man said nothing, and when Erik glanced over to see why, he realized that the mutant was sleeping soundly against the window pane. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he was well versed in the uncertainty of the “if and when” when it came to the next meal. So, he eased on the gas, and turned the car into the furthest left lane.

Peter appeared between the two seats, and jabbed a finger into the lean flesh of the sleeping man. He burst into laughter when the man jerked awake with an undignified snort. Lorna shared a high five with him, and Erik caught her eyes in the rear view mirror. “Lorna, please don't encourage the child.” The gleam in his eyes belied his faux seriousness.

“Yes, sir,” she replied in a glum voice. But it was all in good fun.

Peter ignored the remark about his immaturity, and instead pointed at the diner. “We're going to get some grub, Master-bed.”

Erik's nose wrinkled in amusement as the other mutant blearily rubbed at his eyes and muttered, “That was uncalled for.” Lorna's barely stifled giggled prompted a “Traitor” through a hand covered yawn. “Where are we?”

The metal-bender glanced away from the red light, and offered a one-armed shrug.

“Splendid,” Jason muttered as he started to come to his senses.

“We need a teleporter next,” Peter griped when the light didn't change within the next second.

Erik sighed softly, closed his eyes, and rubbed his brow with his free hand. “Patience is a virtue, Pietro.” He could feel the teen's indignant huff against his bare arm. He opened an eye, and peripherally peered down at his son. The teen ignored the look.

“It's green!” Lorna cried a little more jubilantly than was warranted.

Erik made the turn, and pulled into the diner's parking lot. There appeared to be only two other vehicles in front of the small building, but Erik could sense the metal frame of a third parked in the back. He parked beside a pale green and white pickup truck that appeared to have seen better days, and unbuckled his seatbelt with a wave of his hand.

From the minor shift of magnetism that Erik could feel grazing over his unique abilities, Lorna had apparently made use of her powers to mimic her father. He couldn't help a slight quirk of his lips at the thought. Peter, having had not buckled his belt in the first place, zipped out of the car and appeared on his half-sister's side. He opened the door, and offered her a grin when she smiled at the gesture.

“Thanks, Pie.” She pulled her slight frame from the vehicle, and shaded her luminous green eyes from the sharp sun.

“Oh, man,” Peter whistled, “I could go for some cheap, diner pie.”

“Cheap being the operative word,” Erik couldn't help but say. He was being mindful of their low income, and didn't want to resort to having his only son steal from the other patrons. If he could help it. The thought of having to hightail it out of a tacky diner, of all things, threatened to worsen Erik's established headache.

Peter shrugged at the reminder, and slung his arm around Lorna's shoulders. He pulled them toward the steel-framed, glass double doors of the diner. Jason followed suit, wincing as he stretched the kinks in his neck, while Erik trailed behind.

The building was essentially an oven, Erik immediately realized, when the heat enveloped them the second they entered. Sweat began to bead at his temples, and he could feel the moisture building underneath his thin polo. He was content to sit at the counter, rather than a vinyl booth by the window. He could almost imagine how the sun-scorched fabric would feel against the bare portions of his skin.

Erik took the furthest bar stool from the entrance, and turned the swiveling seat so that he could press his back against the paint-chipped wall beside him. Peter eagerly clambered atop the stool next to him, knocking Erik's long legs in the process, like a toddler happy to be in his father's presence. Lorna, using the sole rung on the chair to aid her, sat beside her newly discovered brother with a closed mouth smile. The tips of her sneakers barely scraped the very rung she had used to help herself up. Jason took his position as Erik's bookend, beside Lorna, and grabbed a menu before him between two fingers.

“Disgusting,” he snipped. He dropped the plastic menu, and rubbed his fingers together. “And sticky,” he added. His American accent did nothing to ease the poshness of his voice. It nearly grated on Erik's nerves for that reason alone, but it also reminded him a little too much of someone else.

Erik cleared his throat, and plucked his upside-down menu from off the counter and skimmed its contents before settling for a simple black coffee, and a meal of eggs with toast. He placed the menu back down, and casually scanned the rest of the diner from where he sat. He could feel the outline of glasses or goggles in the restroom, and the steel leg of an elderly man sitting in a booth by himself. Erik considered neither a threat, so he turned his attention to his children at his side.

“I can't decide,” Peter complained. His gray brows were drawn together above his rapidly moving eyes. His leg bounced up and down as he read and reread the menu. “What are you getting?”

“Me?” Lorna questioned. At Peter's hum of confirmation, she pointed out a picture of a pancake platter with a helping of bacon. “It's either that or something from the lunch menu. I can't decide.”

Erik placed his left elbow on the beige colored counter top (which he believed used to be white, but was now permanently stained from too many coffee spills,) and listened to his daughter muse over what she wanted to eat at that moment. He felt deeply about this moment, and wanted to laugh at how sentimental he had gotten, and over what meal his child chose to eat, before he understood why; he didn't want his child to want for anything. He didn't want her decisions in life to be any harder than “What should I have for lunch today?”

A woman with more red on her lips than she was apparently able to dye into her hair emerged from the kitchen, and whipped out a pen and pad with the ease of a professional. She disinterestedly took down their orders, and stated that their meals would be up shortly. When she left to check on the older man, Lorna and Peter began to chuckle and whisper amongst themselves.

The metal-bender listened to his progeny discuss for a few minutes longer, before the sound of a commode flushing caught his attention. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, and leaned a little to the right. The bathroom was a few feet behind where he was sitting. After a beat, the sound of running water followed before a door opened. Erik waited for the occupant to pass him, and was startled to see that person was horribly disfigured.

The male, donning a stained apron as he shuffled past them, had warped skin that covered the entirety of his face. He had no hair aside from a flattened, Mohawk-esque style on the top of his head. He was also wearing a pair of goggles that didn't have any discernible frames to keep them from falling off, yet they stayed put as the teen walked around the counter. He stopped in place when his attention landed on Erik at the end, but he displayed no emotion aside from a flicker of recognition.

Erik, having relaxed his level of alertness when he thought there were no threats in the immediate vicinity, felt his back ache in response to his sudden tenseness. The diner's employee had apparently recognized him. “Curios,” Erik quietly said to himself. His steely gaze raked over the retreating teenager with a mixture of apprehension and interest.

Their meals only took a few minutes to come out after the teen entered the back, and the group was happy to put off anything that required more words than “Pass the salt, please.” When his meal was inhaled, and his coffee half-depleted, Erik pushed away his plate and stood.

“Where ya going?” Peter asked after, thankfully, swallowing his bite.

“To compliment the chef,” Erik answered as he went to the opposite end of the diner, and rounded the counter with the confidence the others wished they had. He disappeared behind the plastic curtain that separated the kitchen from the front, and stood behind the disfigured teen.

“Good afternoon,” Erik supplied when he noticed that the other male hadn't heard him come in. The cook jumped, and whirled around with a spatula in his hand.

Despite the voice in the back of his head stating that being disfigured or disabled didn't mean you were a mutant, Erik had a strong feeling that that was what he was looking at. Being up close revealed the bubbled flesh to be in the pattern of scales, and the parted lips hinted at a forked tongue within. Erik couldn't help a toothy smile when he held up his hand for the younger man to shake.

“My name is Erik Lehnsherr, and I have a feeling that you and I are quite alike.”


	12. Chapter 12

"Watch where you're putting that elbow," Peter groused. He shifted in the backseat, and huffed in annoyance. There was enough room for the three mutants to sit comfortably in the back, but Peter wasn't necessarily feeling happy that their recent addition separated him from his little sister.

"Then move over." Mortimer Toynbee, who suggested the others call him Toad, didn't bother to look over at the other teen.

"I can't believe you quit on the spot," Lorna claimed. She had her nose pressed against the glass, and was watching the diner they had left from grow smaller and smaller as they traveled.

Morty shrugged. "The old man was the only one that came in there. You guys were the most people in that place since the 50's."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "How  _old_  are you?"

"Old enough to have gone to Vietnam," he retorted. He could see the outer edges of Erik's right brow raise. He had hoped his sarcastic tone didn't offend the older man. The last thing he wanted to do was give the metal-bender an excuse to dump him by the side of the road. Erik, despite having done nothing more than give a pretty speech and demonstrate his magnetic abilities, had shown more kindness to the teen than any other person in the entirety of his young life. The cook, so enthralled by the prospect of being accepted by others, easily forgot the stories he had heard about the infamous Lehnsherr during his tour in Vietnam.

Erik, realizing that the minor squabbling was threatening to only increase, decided to make use of the radio. He reached over and turned the plastic knob until a host announced that the next song was to be by sung by artist Jim Croce. Peter visibly started, sitting up in excitement, so Erik withdrew his hand and left the station where it was. A catchy piano tune filled the vehicle, before Jim Croce began singing "Bad Bad Leroy Brown."

Peter delightfully bobbed his head, and tapped his thighs along with the beat; a habit that hadn't gone wholly unnoticed by Erik. Lorna happily joined in with a slightly offbeat clap, but her cheerful laugh negated her off tune. Her pseudo-older brother, having been trying to fall back asleep, turned his head to smile softly at her glee.

The song wasn't exactly Erik's type, but it was the first he heard it. It did have him nodding his head in time after a minute of playing. He coasted the car along the road, eventually taking a ramp that led to a highway. His intention was to get back to New York, and find a safe house in familiar territory, so that they could conduct an actual semblance of a plan. It was only a stroke of luck that Mastermind and Lorna came upon them, and the same for them when finding Toad.

Eventually, Jim Croce's voice was replaced by the host's. He exclaimed that their Top 100 play list was leading up to the current number one hit: "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Ole Oak Tree," by Tony Orlando and Dawn. The song, as equally upbeat as the last one, began to filter in the car. The trio in the back tapped, hummed, and bobbed along while Erik continuously drove on.

When that song faded off, the host stated that they would restart the Top 100 list in an hour. Erik decided to leave the station where it was. He was enjoying the laughter in the back seat as he quietly drove. He didn't know how long the laughter would last. He had a sinking, gut clenching feeling that things were going to get hairy within the next few days.

* * *

It had been five hours since they had found and recruited Toad. The younger man was sleeping as comfortably as he could in between two writhing bodies. Lorna, who had been content to watch the scenery change from woodland to brick buildings, had been trying to keep her whimpers to herself. Erik knew that the child probably needed to use the restroom as badly as Peter did. The teen, however, made it known as vocally as only he could.

"C'mon," he whined. "We've passed a hundred places we could have stopped at."

"Peter," Erik admonished, "We're on the highway."

The teen made a disgusted sound, and forcefully bumped his head against Jason's headrest. "So, take the next exit then."

"I have to go too," Lorna finally admitted.

Erik sighed, and relented to the inevitable. He had wanted to make the trip back to New York without any pit stops, but it was a very long ride for teens and children a like. He took the next ramp off the relatively empty highway, and kept an eye out for any local gas stations.

After several minutes of mindless driving about, Peter excitedly pointed out a station down the way. Erik had to use his powers to wrap his son's unbuckled seatbelt around him, lest the teen jumped out of the moving vehicle. When the boy let out a startled grunt, Erik knew his concern was correct.

"Uncalled for," Peter mumbled. He rubbed his chest where the belt restrained him in his attempt to take off. His dark eyed glare wasn't missed by his father's perceptive eyes.

"I dare say it was," Jason stated in a smug tone. Peter retaliated by pressing his hands on the exposed metal of Jason's headrest, and used his ability to shake the seat.

"Cut it out," Erik said calmly, although his firm tone didn't allow for Peter to believe he didn't mean it. It didn't seem to have stopped the teen anyway.

"Hey!" Lorna cried out. Erik's eyes snapped up, and he half turned to see that the now awake Toad had shot out his tongue, and had wrapped it around the both of Peter's wrists.

"Gross," Peter claimed as he held up his bound hands. His upturned nose was wrinkled in disgust. "Unhand me you creature." Lorna's pout dissolved into another ready smile.

Apparently, Mort was unaffected by Peter's put upon tone. But when he looked up, and met steady Erik's gaze in the review mirror, he released his hold on the other teen. He offered the older man a subtle shrug that the other either didn't notice or didn't feel the need to reply to.

Erik pulled into the station, and parked the car in front of the nearest pump. With a quick flick of his hand, the four doors simultaneously opened. "In and out."

Peter was already gone.

"Can we get some snacks?"

The metal-bender turned on his heel, and looked down into his daughter's large, green eyes. He offered a slight smile, and reached into his back pocket for his cash. When he pulled out a single, crisp bill he frowned. "I only have a twenty, and we need that for petrol."

Lorna's face fell, and Erik had to restrain himself from leaning down and hugging her until she grinned again. Instead, he replaced the bill in his pocket, and placed a hand on her slender shoulder. "Ask Peter to grab something for you, alright?"

The child's smile returned in full force. "Really?"

_No_ ,  _say no you idiot._ "Of course."

"Thank you, Daddy!" She skipped towards the entrance as Erik's heart soared within his chest.

"I'm doomed," he muttered as he grabbed the nozzle.

* * *

Several hours later, with the encroaching darkness of the evening at their backs, the Brotherhood entered the state of New York with nonexistent fanfare.

Erik, feeling the first waves of exhaustion cresting over him, perked a brow in mild amusement when he realized that he was surrounded by his sleeping brood. He managed a cursory glance of the dark interior, and felt a paternal quirk of his lips at the various states of the others. Occasionally, slants of artificial light would light up their sleeping faces with every lamppost Erik passed. He could make out Peter, slumped against the door, with his mouth parted in sleep. Morty, sitting up with his arms loosely folded across his chest, had his head set on the motor-mouthed teen's left shoulder. Lorna, from what Erik could scarcely see, had drawn her legs up underneath herself. Her head lolled against the bottom of the window pane.

Erik returned his eyes to the windshield. The mixture of dust, sand, and dirt that had coated the glass was easily wiped away with a quick squirt of wiper fluid. He blinked against the bleariness that the liquid left behind, and languidly rubbed at his eyes. Erik conceded to his tiredness when it seemed that no amount of scrubbing would rid his eyesight or the windshield of its perpetual blur.

The outskirt of the city, lined with unkempt trees, eventually gave way to an opening that led down a vaguely familiar road. Erik took the familiarity as a hunch, and opted to take the route. As the asphalt gave way to grass and gravel, and the lights behind him gradually faded away, Erik realized why he had recognized the nondescript trail.

"Emma," Erik wistfully sighed. The diamond beauty had mentioned, in her usual disinterested and unaffected manner, that there had been a house that a former member of the Hellfire Club used to reside in. She had casually implanted the location in his mind, and ignored his growl of distrust.

_"Stay out of my head."_

_Emma seemingly rolled her eyes without actually making the motion. Only she was capable of such a maneuver. She didn't bother to look up as she held up one delicate hand. The shine of her nails nearly overtook the smell of polish._

_"I wasn't about to write it down it down, and risk messing up my nails, sugar."_

_Erik scowled, but opted not to comment. Instead, he made a pointed look at his set aside helmet, and asked, "_ Former _member?"_

_"Well," Emma gracefully stood and admired her handiwork. "A man like Shaw certainly wasn't going to allow a woman like Tessa get away with what she'd done; the traitorous wench."_

With a sharp blink, Erik jerked himself out of his deep reverie. He slowed the car to a stop, and peered out of the driver's window. A large, ordinary house was perched atop a neatly rounded hill before him. The building, made of white paneled slabs and similarly painted logs, stood in stark contrast to the encompassing night.

Erik let himself out of the vehicle, stretched, and stared up at the house. It was large, it didn't appear to need too much work, and it was out of the way. Erik thought it was perfect.

"Where are we?" Lorna's voice groggily drifted from inside.

Erik opened her door, unbuckled her belt with a wave of his hand, and gingerly reached in to pick her up. While she may later protest against being held at her age, she currently accepted the gesture with a contented sigh. Erik rest his head atop of hers, and turned to face the building once more.

"We're home."


	13. Chapter 13

“This place is a dump,” Peter complained as he zipped from one hollow room to the other. The teenager was a little surprised to note that the interior of the house was much larger than the outside let on. However, that didn't seem to slow the speedster down as he easily managed the two-story home.

During his exploration upstairs, a closed ceiling hatch in the hall caught his roving attention. He jumped and struggled to catch the thin rope that dangled above him. When he finally managed to pull down the hatch, an extended wooden ladder followed it. Rather than using his ability, Peter opted to use a relatively normal speed on the rickety stairs. A seconds fumble later found a single light switch just behind him. The room was revealed to be an attic, and was poorly illuminated by two, bare bulbs on the opposite ends of the empty room.

Meanwhile, the others stood in the equally empty foyer. Their faces bore similar mixtures of contemplation and mild exhaustion. Jason and Morty stood in the frame of the main, double doorway. Erik, having carefully set Lorna to her feet, stepped further into the house and studied his surroundings. He could see that directly in front of the front door was a half-wall. A quick peek over the edge revealed that there was a staircase that led to, what he could only presume, was a basement.

From his peripheral, Erik noted that there was only a wall to his right, but that the left of the vestibule gave them a clear idea of the overall spaciousness. A spiral staircase, that led to the second floor, sat in the middle of the hall. Directly behind the stairs was an unlatched door that gave them a clear view of a, possibly, full bathroom. It was clear to see that there was a lack of wall to the right of the stairs, but what room it led to wasn't apparent from where they stood.

Morty peered around the trio that stood in front of him. He scrunched his face in confusion when Peter's declaration seemingly sunk in. “How is this place a dump?” He crouched, not unlike an amphibian ready to pounce, and swiped a finger across the white oak wood flooring. “It needs to cleaned up a bit. A little sweeping here, a little dusting there...It beats 'Nam, that's for sure.”

“It doesn't need to _look_ perfect,” Erik stated. He furrowed his brow, and removed his hand from where it was resting on Lorna's thin shoulder. “It needs some fortification.” His light eyes raked over bare walls, and dusty wooden floors. The others could practically feel the man's strategic brain cranking out ideas, formulations, and plans. “This is going to be our home base.”

“Home base?” Peter repeated as he slid down the banister of the spiral staircase. There were two, unexplored doors on the opposite wall of the main entrance. He curiously opened one, poked his head in, and closed it before repeating the same with the other. He swiped at his nose. “Closets,” he informed the others, although they were hardly paying him any attention.

The teen folded his arms across his chest, and gave the foyer a final, critical scan. From what he could tell, the house was large, and appeared to need little in the way of housework. He eventually offered a meager, one-armed shrug. “I guess it's alright.”

Lorna turned her face up, and grinned at the disinterested Mastermind. She reached back, and tugged on his hand. “Isn't this great, Jase? Who'd a thunk we'd be living in an actual house?”

The young adult absently dug the fingers of his free hand into his whiskered face.

“Well? What'd you think of it?”

“It'll do, bunny.”

Seemingly unsatisfied with the bland answer, Lorna turned away from her pseudo-brother to ask her father how he came upon the place. However, the foyer was now sans the metal-bender. The child frowned, and tugged her hand free from Jason's loose grasp. She ventured down the hall, and gasped in delight at the extravagantly large, open space before her. She wasn't completely aware as to what the current room served as, but easily decided it was probably a dining area.

Several yards in front of her was clearly the kitchen. The lack of wall made it easy to see the numerous, chipped counters even from where she stood. Two metal fridges, separated by one counter in between, glistened in moonlight that pierced through windows she couldn't see.

A noise to her right had Lorna spinning to face the sound, only to see it was her father standing alone in what must've served as a den or living room. She stepped in, hands clutching at the hem of her shirt in a nervous habit, as she watched her father's stern features take in the room.

Erik, pale eyes scrutinizing the interior of the home, swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. He scratched at the thatch of wispy, auburn curls at the base of his neck as he thought. Without a word, he strode out of the room, past Lorna, and back into the foyer where the others waited restlessly.

“I know it's late, and that we're tired,” he began. His deep voice resonated in the cavernous home. “However, we are going to need a few things if we intend to stay here.” He perked a dark brow, as if he was waiting for a rebuttal or some sort of comment, but was met with none. “I suggest Mastermind and Peter get supplies while you,” he pointed to Morty, “And you,” he pointed to the eager-eyed Lorna, “Stay behind and get this place cleaned up. It's going to be a long night, I'm afraid.”

“I don't mind helping,” Morty started, almost shyly, “But what do you suggest we clean with?” He splayed his empty hands out, palms flat and upward; demonstrating his lack of cleaning supplies.

Erik ignored the twitch he felt at the corner of his eye. This was going to be a long night, indeed. “Fair point,” he agreed dryly. “Join the others. Peter-” The teen, slouched against the wall in both boredom and exhaustion, perked up at his name. “The sooner you get what we need, the sooner we can all rest. So, make haste. Understood?”

Peter shook his silver bangs away from his line of sight, and offered the older man a toothy grin that was wholly too familiar to look at.

Only slightly perturbed by Peter's excitement at theft, Erik turned and stared down the empty foyer once again. “Is there an attic or basement?”

The fabric of Erik's thin shirt fluttered as Peter zipped to his side. The teen looked up; his dark eyes barely meeting Erik's unfocused pair. “Both, but the attic isn't much. It's too small to be anything but storage space.”

The older man chewed his bottom lip. “Bedroom count?”

Peter wrinkled his nose in thought. “There's two floors; not including the attic and basement. The first floor,” he jerked a thumb out to indicate their current position, “Has the basics: living room, dining room, full bath, and a kitchen. There's also some big room next to the kitchen. It's the only room on this floor, besides the bath, that has a door. Not too sure what it was used for, though.” Peter paused as he considered the possible uses for said room, but a throat being cleared brought his attention back. “Uh, the second has, like, six bedrooms. I think. There's, like, two other rooms that could be offices or nurseries or something. And there's two full baths up there.” He glanced up again. “It's pretty huge, to be honest. I mean, the kitchen, dining and living room each could practically be houses on their own.”

Erik tried to imagine the final layout, but struggled with it in his sleepy state. He rubbed at his eye with the knuckle of his right hand, and asked, “How's the basement look?”

The teen shook his head. “It's colossal, but it's just one room. I guess we could add bathrooms or something. Maybe turn the whole thing into a gym or sparring space.” He grinned, and drummed his fingers against his thigh. “Actually, this is pretty cool,” he admitted. “I'm kinda stoked to fix this place up, and make it totally groovy.”

“I'm glad you're 'stoked,'” Erik deadpanned. He lifted his wrist, and looked at his newly adorned watch. He begrudgingly accepted it from his son when Peter had nonchalantly swiped it from an unsuspecting clerk. The metal face comforted him as he took note of the time. “It's late, but not late enough for closing time.” He turned back to face the group; all watching him with sleepy-eyed acceptance. “Mastermind,” the stoic man merely blinked at the metal-bender, “We don't have any financial means to pay for what we need. I want Peter to do what he has to do, and for you to make sure he doesn't get caught. If he runs into trouble,” he searched for the right phrasing, “Simply work your magic.” There was a near undetectable wince at his choice. “Understood?”

“What about me, sir?”

Erik looked down at the other teen. He was mildly disconcerted at the lack of eyes to meet at as he said, “I need you to act as a lookout. If you think you can get away with swiping some things, then by all means, do so. Mastermind will clean up any trouble you boys run into. We'll worry about furniture later. We need food, blankets or sleeping bags, office supplies such as papers and writing utensils, cleaning products...” Erik trailed off and scratched the skin underneath his eye. “Just use your good judgment, alright?”

It almost hurt to force the words 'good judgment' through his lips when his eyes settled upon his son's mischievous face. The teen was, after all, being condoned to steal. Erik swallowed another sigh, and vaguely waved his hands toward the front, double door. The others dutifully filed out without another word, and Erik allowed himself to relax only when he finally heard the car start up and begin to pull out of the gravel driveway.

Erik peered over at Lorna, who was hesitantly shuffling towards the end of the foyer in curiosity, and smiled. “Let's say you and I take a tour of the place, huh?”

Lorna's green eyes lit up, and she bobbed her head in excitement. “Once we get this placed fixed up, it's going to look _so_ cool!”

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

It had taken a little more than a month in order for the house to look more inhabitable. In that time, Erik had grown increasingly frustrated at his inability to leave the home, and fully begin an official Brotherhood recruitment. The others required his full attention, and left him little choice but to remain at the base. Erik was aware that he needed more hands at the base, so that he was able to leave and recruit more hands. The paradox of his situation was not lost on the metal-bender.

The menial, day-to-day tasks were also beginning to wear on the mutant. He found himself delegating the tasks to the teens, and holing himself within his suitably dubbed 'war room.' The room itself, located directly beside the kitchen, was only recently furnished. It held three, dark wood tables that formed a squared horseshoe in the center. An equal number of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were pressed against the back wall, but were mostly bereft of any novels or textbooks. A relatively large bulletin board took most of the wall space to the left, while an enormous world map was pinned to the right. Erik had mostly considered it an office or library, but his son refused to name it such.

Despite feeling the deep want to flee to his beloved war room, if only for the pretense of getting some sort of work done, Erik had opted to remain in the foyer when a familiar grunt filtered in. He rested the small of his back against the half-wall, and folded his arms across his sinewy chest. The mutant blandly chewed on his tasteless gum as he watched the open front door in mild amusement.

Another animalistic grunt, much closer this time, resounded from just outside. It was shortly followed by a considerably beefy, blond-haired man as he attempted to maneuver his girth through the main door; his massive arms laden with a fully complete weight machine. Erik found himself momentarily dumbfounded at the sight.

Initially, Erik had been pleasantly surprised when Mastermind and Peter had managed to wrangle the rather large mutant back to their base. When the monstrosity of a man realized that the others had no intention of harm, but instead offered work and the promise of a brotherhood, he had readily agreed. It didn't take long for the mutant to admit he had been missing the concept, and that he had taken to eating his way through his feelings. It disgusted Erik, but he had use for the man's brawn.

However, it was clear the mutant lacked brains. Erik could only watch a moment longer, lest his gum fell through his parted lips. He tore his incredulous stare away from the other, and pushed himself away from the wall. The metal-bender hadn't wanted to risk wasting the breath it would take to ask why the imbecile hadn't thought to assemble the machine in the basement; rather than in the front lawn.

The mutant, introduced as Fred Dukes, was aptly nicknamed Blob by Peter when the other had turned his rather large back. Erik had a feeling that the nickname for the man didn't just refer to his abnormal muscle mass, but he had to admit that Dukes presently had more muscle than fat. Although it was currently a fine line, and Erik did not look forward to watching the man literally tip the scales.

“Hey!” Dukes cried out when a blur of movement nearly upended him. “Watch yerself!”

“It's lunchtime, Duke-man!” Peter shouted back as he raced through the foyer, past the dining area, and into the kitchen. It was times like these that the teen was exceptionally glad that the majority of the first story had an open floor plan. He didn't want to worry about rushing face first into one of the many, thick wooden doors.

Erik neatly sidestepped the teen. He had just started to pass the long, glass dining table when a soft giggle made him pull up short. He stepped into the entrance of the adjacent living room. Two, antique couches formed an L-shape in the center, and nearly blocked his view of a certain, green-haired little girl. He walked in a little further, and stood behind the first leather sofa. A fireplace crackled gently to his immediate right, and illuminated the comparatively dark space in a warm glow. It was one of the few rooms that didn't have any windows. An easel stood in the far left corner; a crude, half-finished painting still resting on it. And although Erik couldn't see around the fireplace, he was aware there was an unused chess set in the right corner.

He placed his hands atop the back of the couch, and cleared his throat. “Lorna.” The child's head snapped up at the gravelly voice. “Lunch.”

The preteen untucked her lanky legs from underneath herself, and used the edge of a couch cushion to haul her skinny form from off the floor. She tucked a worn-looking teddy under her arm, and smiled up at Erik when she passed him. Erik trailed silently behind.

The father/daughter duo could easily hear arguing within the expanse of kitchen.

“I'm just saying that you could at least clean up after yourself. Nobody likes to touch gooey, amphibian...goo.”

There was an incredulous snort. “Really? You're the very _definition_ of a slob.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You're both slobs,” Lorna happily announced as she skipped into the kitchen. She placed her bear on the kitchen island, and rivaled her brother in her haste to zip to the counters nearest the twin fridges. The sole counter in between the two was covered in an assortment of bread and condiments for sandwiches. She eagerly snagged a paper plate, and set to work on her own creation.

Peter, sitting atop a cracked counter to the right of one of the large coolers, adopted a wounded expression. “Dude,” he protested. “You're supposed to be on my side.”

Lorna wrinkled her nose. “I'm the only girl here,” she retorted. “I'm on _my_ side.”

The metal-bender grinned smugly at her reply. He quietly stepped behind the petite girl, and reached over her to grab his chosen bread. She ducked underneath his arm with a small laugh, as she whirled in place until she faced Mort. The teen had moved away from the stove, and was now leaning against the island with his own meal.

“Pie is right, though.” She bit a chunk of rolled up ham. “You do leave gooey messes.”

“Ew,” Peter scowled disgustingly. “That _is_ goo, _isn't_ it?”

Erik rolled his eyes, and licked a stripe of butter from his thumb. He gave his son a pointed stare. “That's enough, Peter.” He threw the same expression back to the other teenager, who appeared ready to flick his prehensile tongue in retaliation. However, Mort immediately balked at the look, and resumed eating his food in silence.

The elder mutant narrowed his eyes as he glanced from one boy to the other. Satisfied when he found whatever he was looking for, or the lack of what he was scrutinizing the pair for, he offered them a curt nod. He motioned vaguely towards the general area of the basement stairs with his sandwich. “Whenever you two are finished, you can clean up whatever mess it is you're so worried about.”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but a sudden vibration of the metal buttons of his leather jacket caused him to falter. He swallowed his next words with a handful of saltines, and scrounged up an annoyed glare at the the other teens direction.

A sudden, clanging crash of metal against concrete reached them, and had Erik taking a step forward with a heavy sigh. He slowed his chewing, in order to better hear over his own jaw working, and turned his head so that his ear was pointed towards the foyer.

There were a few muffled curses before Dukes called out, “It's alright! Everythin's alright!”

The two boys were sharing twin grins, while Lorna failed miserably at trying to hide hers. Erik looked over his shoulder at her, and shook his head. “Don't ever repeat those words, young lady.”

Lorna vigorously nodded. “Scout's honor!”

Her older brother snorted. “You're no scout.”

“And neither are you. Now hop to, Pietro. I believe there's a mess you boys need to take care of.” Erik raised a brow, and waited for them to get moving. He thought about using his powers to get them to go, but was content when Morty heaved a soft sigh and complied. Peter followed suit shortly after with a beleaguered groan, and dramatic flip of his silvery bangs.

Peter placed his empty plate in the trash, and popped his last cracker in his mouth.

“Peter,” Erik said firmly, “No powers. It's not a punishment if you cheat to get out of it.”

“ _What_?” Peter groused. “That's no fair!”

Erik placed his own plate atop the nearest counter, and set his jaw when he turned back to face the teen. “I know what's fair, and what isn't. So, believe you me when I say it's perfectly _fair_.”

The tone of voice, flat and bereft of any emotion, rankled the teenager. However, Peter knew when to pick and choose his battles when it came to his father. He offered little more than an embittered scowl in return, and shuffled towards the kitchen's entrance.

Erik, decidedly feeling that his appetite had diminished after the minor spat, left his plate where it was. The exchange wasn't anything new, but the moods in the household were beginning to swing towards the malevolent with every day that showed lack a of progress.

He placed his hand on the level handle of the plain, double door of the war room. The silver metal under his palm hummed in contentment. He cracked one of the doors open, but paused before he could fully enclose himself in the room.

“Lorne?”

The child, a little sullen now that the jovial mood had been spoiled, looked up through her green bangs. “Yeah?”

Erik felt the sudden need to offer her a reassuring smile, or say that everything would be right as rain as soon as Peter got over his grouchiness; to tell her that living with him, now, was better than living on the streets, and that everything would be better...but instead he trained his pale eyes on the floor, and asked that she made sure the food he abandoned didn't go to waste.

Lorna's brows twitched as she frowned, but she nodded in response.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Peter sucked on his back molar while he simultaneously scrunched the left side of his face. His hand snapped up to gingerly touch the tender tissue of his cheek. The smooth flesh was hot underneath his searching fingertips, and throbbed in time with his racing heart. It didn't appear, though, to have suffered any lacerations from the mild blow. He sighed in relief, but flattened his hand so that the entirety of his palm rested over the blossoming ache.

"Watch the face, Toad."

"Then keep your hands up," the teen firmly instructed.

Peter scowled up at the other boy, ignoring the short lance of pain the motion caused. He disgustedly held up his free hand, and was unceremoniously hauled back to his feet. The silver-haired teen scrubbed at his smarting cheek before he dusted off the seat of his sweatpants with both of his hands. He glanced down at the floor, and shook his head.

The teen placed one hand atop his cocked hip, while he jerkily gestured to the ground. "Whose idea was it to put in a concrete floor anyway?"

Mort took a measured step back. He dragged his sweaty palms over the thin cotton of his own sweats, and turned his body to the side. It hadn't been too long since his boot training, and he could easily recall the basics of a fighting stance. He fluidly brought his right leg back, and forced any remaining rigidity out of his body. The result relaxed his knees, and offered a slight bend. He brought his fisted hands up to his face, making sure he kept his thumbs out, and brought one fist lower than the other. Although they were at his eye level, his hands didn't block out the lazy grin on the other's face.

It took the physically deformed teen less than a second to adopt the familiar stance. As he slightly widened his footing to accommodate the weight he had managed to gain since Vietnam, he dryly said, "I doubt this room was intended for sparring."

"Well, it's a sparring room  _now_ ," Peter griped. He acerbically placed a hand on the bottom of his chin and scrutinized Mort's position with dark eyes, as if he were a painter admiring another's shoddy work. Slowly, he moved himself into a somewhat similar posture. He held his hands by his face, close enough that a simple knock would bounce his loose fists back into his cheekbones. The other teen shook his head, just as Peter was stating, "It's a stupid idea."

"What?" Mort questioned as he slapped away Peter's attempt at a playful swipe.

Peter huffed. "What, what?"

"What's stupid?"

"Well," Peter sighed dramatically, "I think the decorative choices aren't the brightest,  _and_  I think this sparring session is stupid. I never get into hand-to-hand combat. They can  _never_  catch me."

The room, the largest in the house, was located in the basement. It was bleak and gray; bare of anything but what the teens had entered with: two plastic water bottles, and two royal blue towels. The ceiling was adorned with industrial ceiling lamps that were sparsely intervaled, and cast the enclosed space in washed out light.

The teens circled one another; twin looks of concentration on their faces. Morty was taught proper combat techniques during his Army training in bootcamp, but was also taught survival on his short-lived Vietnam tour. Erik had sought his knowledge when he had decided that Peter needed to learn how to use more than his rapier wit. The metal-bender apparently didn't believe that an ability to run as fast as one's mouth should be the sole thing a teenager should rely on.

Currently, said teen was lunging forward with another ill attempt at landing a blow. Mort huffed in annoyance when he easily parried the move. "Are you even trying?"

Peter swiped a stray, silvery lock of hair from off his sweat-beaded forehead. "It's stupid," he repeated petulantly.

"Until it isn't," Mort found himself growling back. He tactically stepped back as Peter tried to reach his chin with a closed fist, and then copied the move with much more success. He huffed in semi-disbelief. "Didn't I just say to keep your fists up?"

The other, having unintentionally stifled the resounding yelp by biting his lip, glared back. He bent at the waist, one hand resting on a knee, as the other hand poked his bleeding mouth.

"Alright," Peter grumbled, "I call a time-out." He stumbled backward when Mort made as if to lunge forward, and fell onto his haunches. "Dude! Time-out!" He made the 'time-out' gesture.

"There are no  _time-outs_  when you're fighting," Toad scowled. He shook his head, for what felt like the millionth time since they both had entered to spar, but relented to the other's gesture. "Erik's not going to be happy about this."

Peter's torn bottom lip, stained bright red from where he smudged the welling blood, turned down. He glanced up from where he sat on the floor. "You wouldn't tattle, would you?"

Morty offered a noncommittal shrug, and crossed his bare arms over his chest. "I owe the man my life," he said instead of answering outright.

"Bull," Peter bitterly laughed. He pulled in his legs, and rested his elbows atop his knees. He then proceeded to snag the sleeve of his white tee, and dab at his red mouth. A small portion of the cloth stained a brownish maroon. "He pulled you off the line," another jab, and swipe, "And I don't even mean the  _front_  line."

It wasn't hard to imagine the eyes behind the black goggles darkening. The deep scowl did, of course, aid in painting that particular picture. Mort stalked off to the wall closest to the sole door, and snatched his bottle of water and towel lying beside it.

"I may not have been in 'Nam when he came for me," Mort started as he pulled the towel around his neck, "But make no mistake – I was on the line."

Peter bodily pulled himself to his feet, and pivoted to face the other. "He  _didn't_  come for you," he stated hotly. "We  _found_ you in a diner. The only line you were on was the one that comes before the word 'cook.'"

Peter wrinkled his nose, and glanced down at his blood-stained fingers. Later, when they were both icing down, Peter would wonder why he hadn't heard the grumbled  _ribbet_  that preempted Morty's strike. As it was, the teen neither heard nor noticed the elongated prehensile tongue that lashed in his direction. It wasn't until he felt something warm and sticky wrapping around the sweat pant material around his ankle did he realize he had probably made a huge mistake.

The teen felt his eyes widen fractionally just as the surprisingly forceful tongue yanked his footing from underneath him, and slammed him to the unyielding, concrete ground. The breath escaped his lungs at the sudden impact, but he was offered no immediate reprieve. The fleshy organ dragged him along the floor a few feet, before tossing the teen clear across the room, and into the opposite wall.

Peter slumped to the ground, stunned. A dull ringing reverberated within his ears, and intermingled with the bright spots of white light that danced before Peter's view. He had hoped to rest there, possibly pass out and wake up half past never, but the low crouch of the other mutant suggested he had better move – and move quickly.

He tapped into his ability, managed to fight off the overwhelming inertia, and sped from his slouched position to his feet. He rushed forward; forming half a plan that didn't manage to reach fruition. The other teen used his superhuman strength to launch himself forward, and had been met with Peter's abdomen. He instantly wrapped his arms around the other's middle, and forcibly took the both of them down.

"I see you didn't skip leg day," Peter gasped as his back met the ground again.

They grappled for several seconds: one trying to force the weight of the other off, while the other struggled to find enough leverage to bring his fist down.

Peter could have sworn he could feel his battered mind working tenfold to come with some semblance of a plan. In the future, when he was a (semi-mature) grown man, his mind would be capable of thinking as quickly as his legs moved. In the present, however, too many knocks to an adolescent head rendered him near utterly useless when it came to strategics .

The teen dug the heel of a sneaker-clad foot against the concrete, and used his dwindling energy to tap into his ability once again. He swept his leg as hard as he could to the side, and with a boost from his power, managed to spin on his back like a tortoise.

Mort remained atop him; hands tightly grasping Peter's tee in an attempt to hang on. Peter repeated the leg sweep again and again, until his momentum rivaled a Tilt-A-Whirl. When it appeared that Mort was beginning to slide off, and was barely hanging by the tips of his fingers, Peter simultaneously stopped his spin and bucked both his legs out like a mule.

The result was the toad-like teen arcing through the air in an almost spectacular manner, before crashing through the wooden door of their sparring room. The resounding  _clang_  of a fast-moving, heavy load hitting a recently erected weight machine brought a chorus of muffled shouts from upstairs.

Peter used the last dregs of his energy to lift his aching head, grin at the cartoon-like hole in the demolished door, and then promptly pass out.


	16. Chapter 16

Erik jerked awake with a soft, pained gasp. He grasped the back of his neck, having cracked at his sudden movement, and massaged the aching muscle underneath his fingertips. There was a soft, muffled snore that intermingled with an equally faint, yet sharp steady click of an analog clock. When and who had originally nicked the timekeeper escaped Erik, but it had suddenly appeared on the fireplace's mantle; set precariously close to the edge. With a hard blink, his hand still resting at the base of his head, he turned his head and squinted his eyes in an attempt to make out the clock's bleary numbers.

3:03 AM.

Erik inhaled deeply, slowly, and absently rubbed at his left eye with the knuckle of the same hand. His right, fingertips digging into the prickly-haired skin of his neck, dragged away before he dropped it down onto his lap. With a languid glance, Erik peered over to the other couch in the living room area. The couch itself wasn't very large, and because of such, was occupied from arm-to-arm by Peter's rumpled, unconscious form.

He placed his hand atop the dark seat, and used the leverage to drowsily push his lean weight to his feet. His hand faintly peeled away from the leather cushion as he removed it. After an unsteady sway, Erik took the three, neat steps from where he sat to where Peter was sleeping. He bent at the waist; his pupils constricting and dilating as his head dipped in and out of the pale shaft of light emanating from the back door.

He pushed a silvery fringe of Peter's hair away from the teen's closed eyes. There were barely perceptible dark smudges of a telltale concussion underneath Peter's lids. Erik refrained from touching the gray streaks; his fingers twitched at his sides instead.

"Peter." His throat, voice unused for several hours, ached. He could still feel the residual tightness that initially overwhelmed him (when Dukes had emerged from the basement with his son cradled in his massive arms.) He cleared it, internally wincing at the twinge of pain, and tried again. More firmly, a little louder: "Peter. Wake up."

Of course the teenager didn't so much as stir at the commanding tone. Erik wasn't entirely surprised. One didn't usually rise to a gruff voice after having been rendered unconscious after a blow to the head. Concussions annoyingly didn't help either.

Erik scowled. He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, and jostled the other until a groan filtered from the dark mass underneath him. A pair of sedate, brown eyes peered up at his towering form. They flit closed, and reopened again. The pale light imperceptibly softened his already youthful features.

The teen squinted, and ran a hand down the length of his face.

"What?" His voice was thick with sleep.

"You need to get up." The metal-bender felt his jaw tighten at the sound of his own callous tone. He deliberately pinched his bottom lip in between the tips of his canines, and tried again. "C'mon." His attempt at adopting a softer tone still sounded rough around the edges. "You can't stay asleep after a concussion."

Peter's glazed-over expression gradually evaporated as he become more aware. He dug his elbows into the cushions underneath him, and pulled himself up until his back rested against the arm of the couch. The leather squeaked under his ministrations. "You have."

Trust the teen to still muster arrogantly annoying remarks despite injury. Erik had the brief thought that the teen's last words could very well possibly be, "What are you gonna do? Shoot me?" The short thought flickered out of his mind as fast as it had entered it.

"I've done many things," Erik retorted, stopping himself just short of a reactive snort, "But that doesn't mean you should follow in my footprints."

Peter's brow drew close in confusion. "I think you mean footsteps."

Erik's smile was tight. "I know what I meant."

Bemused, Peter scrunched his pert nose and pulled his legs up. "Okay," he stated simply. He swung his limbs over the side of the couch, and planted his shoes atop the dark, Dyrnak-patterned rug. Erik couldn't exactly recall when the rug had appeared, much like the clock, but assumed that one of the others came upon it, and had thought it would add some sort of décor to the otherwise bland room. With its frayed edges, and sporadic tufts of fabric standing up, Erik had thought it would look better on the side of the road.

Lorna demanded it stay.

It stayed.

"Give me your arm," Erik demanded without malice. He held out his own forearm toward the unusually passive teen. When Peter didn't immediately take hold, Erik jerked his arm a little closer. "Peter, give me your arm. We're going to your room."

"I'm not tired," Peter indignantly huffed. He jut his lower jaw out, and stared up at his father's flat expression. The older man couldn't make out the teen's eyes in the shadow, but could almost feel the sparkle of mischief that constantly lit them up.

"That isn't the point," Erik stated with a barely suppressed sigh. He lowered his arm to his side, nonetheless. "You need to rest, but the couch-"

"Was fine until you woke me up."

Erik deliberately ground his molars together. He resisted the urge to massage his temples or pinch the bridge of his nose. "Stop arguing, and do as I say, Pietro."

Despite the shadow across the teen's face, Erik could feel the force of his narrow-eyed glare. Erik returned the expression; sharp gray-blue eyes glistening in the softly filtered light. He could feel his hands, held loftily at his waistline, tightened into twin fists. When the clenched hands began to burn, Erik slowly splayed his fingers out, and took a steadying breath.

"If you would rather remain on the couch," he began in a firmly passive tone, "Then fine." He took a step back, and fluidly slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Without another word, he rounded the couch, and exited the living room with a tightened jaw and swifter stride.

Peter exaggerated the mirthful twist of his lips as he looked over his shoulder. The expansive dining room appeared empty and silent; dimly lit from the open room alongside it. He wriggled his nose, and faced forward again. The area before him was dark and uninviting. Peter rubbed his palms against his sweatpants, and gingerly cleared his throat.

* * *

Peter toed off his pair of Converse, and tossed them by his dilapidated dresser. The chest of drawers shook when one of the dirt-streaked sneakers clipped the side. They rattled, as if the top drawer was going to fall through and knock the rest out, and Peter waited with bated breath for the inevitable crash. He sighed in relief when nothing happened.

He bit his lower lip in a failing attempt to stop a wide yawn; unwilling to admit he was exhausted even though Erik wasn't even in the same room. The teen smacked his lips, and slowly blinked against the bleariness that overtook his eyesight. He glanced down at his bed: a long, narrow bunk with a paisley blue comforter.

Peter glanced across the room, where an identical bed was pressed up against the opposite wall. He pushed his silver bangs away from his forehead, and strained to make out the undefined lump underneath the similarly mismatched comforter.

" _Psst_."

The small lump stirred, before settling.

"I said,  _psssst_."

The comforter, an amalgamation of purples in an argyle pattern, was lifted and pulled away to reveal a mussed-haired Lorna. The young girl's eyes were still squeezed shut. She attempted a half-hearted scowl, but it was aborted by a deep yawn.

"Are you awake?" Peter slid off the edge of the bed, and crawled across the floor.

"No," she whispered fiercely. Her head plopped back onto her pillow; green hair ridiculously fanned out. She burrowed her face with a huff.

Peter placed his chin on the mattress. He peered up at the mop of hair with half-lidded eyes, and mumbled, "How about now?"

She lifted her face again, but had trained her eyes on the wall before her and not the teen at her side. She pulled out an arm from underneath the comforter, and swiped at a tangle of hair that was poking her eyes. "Why?"

Peter wordlessly pulled himself up and onto the bed, and crawled over Lorna's prone body. He nestled himself between the younger girl and the wall with a contented sigh.

"What are you doing?" she questioned exhaustedly. She shifted slightly to accommodate his larger form, but made no protestations.

The teen placed an arm underneath his still aching head, and rested his other hand on his equally sore stomach. He grinned softly, aware she couldn't see the sadness pulling at the edges, and shrugged. "I miss my sister."

"I'm right here," she mumbled.

He shook his head, and offered her an easy laugh. "I mean my other sister." He disinterestedly picked at a his sweats; licking his thumb before rubbing at a dark stain on his thigh. Probably his own blood from his fisticuff with Toad. "She was a brat, but she was my sister."

Lorna offered no wise words for her older brother, but instead snuggled against his side and wrapped her thin arm around his stomach. "Maybe you can visit sometime."

Peter smiled down at her arm, and scoot himself down until he was able to comfortably lie flat on his back. He patted her arm, and relished her soothing warmth.

"Yeah. Maybe."


	17. Chapter 17

"Lucky."

Peter's neck audibly cracked from how hard he whipped his head around. He pursed his lips in confusion when there didn't appear to be anyone else in the immediate vicinity. From where he stood in the dining room, he could clearly see the majority of the kitchen and the living room. He resumed closing the glass sliding door he was just coming through, and wiped his muddy palms on his jeans.

There was an audible snort that made him freeze. He squinted his dark eyes, and surveyed the room with a concentrated expression of scrutiny. That was when he noticed the luminous pair of green eyes peeking over the top of a dining room chair. He toothily grinned at his find.

"Hola, brochacha," he brayed with an exaggerated Hispanic accent.

The eyes narrowed at his apparent jubilance. Tiny fingers appeared on either side of the heated gaze, and clenched the wooden seat with surprising strength. The lumber creaked as the small body shifted to its knees, but maintained its steady glare.

"It's not fair." The thin voice was muffled behind the thick chair.

"What about my hair?" Peter's dirty hands immediately went to his bangs. He toyed with a few strands with one finger for several seconds before Lorna's voice cut through his distracted mind.

"I  _said_ ," Lorna sat up straighter, the movement revealing her thinly pressed lips, "It's not  _fair_."

"What's not fair?"

Peter hesitantly took a closer step to his kid sister. He and Toad were already at odds, despite having both recovered from their injuries several days earlier. When Erik had noticed their reluctance to resume their already tenuous friendship, the metal-bender had made them shake hands. Which they did – albeit begrudgingly. So, the last thing the teen wanted or needed was to argue with his little sister as well. "Lorne, what's up your butt?"

The lips quirked in amusement, but quickly morphed back into a moody frown. The younger girl petulantly pointed at the teen's chest, and grumbled, "You get to go on a recruitment, and I don't."

"Oh," Peter laughed in relief. He pulled out the chair next to Lorna, twisted it around so that the seat was backwards, and straddled the object with his usual, casual swagger. He rested his elbows on the wooden rail, and placed his chin atop of his arms. "Speak to me, little one."

Lorna turned so that she was fully facing the other. She picked at a loose thread on her navy blue, pleated skirt. Peter didn't care much for fashion, but he thought the skirt and pale blue blouse combination complimented the younger girl's green eyes...and mossy-green hair. He cleared his throat when he realized he was drifting, and renewed his gaze on the other.

"Dad said I can't go on the recruitment with you. I'm bummed."

Peter sighed.  _Oh_. "I kinda agree with the old man on this one. We never know how some mutants will act, and, well-" He shrugged apologetically. "It's too dangerous, Mean Green."

"But  _you_  get to go!"

"Yeah," Peter admitted, "But I gotta go with the frog-man. So, really, what's fair? Ow!" He pulled back his arm, and rubbed the flesh with a pout. "No need to get physical."

"I get to go on the next one," she demanded with a little leg swing. She folded her arms across her chest, and flared the nostrils of her nose.

"Not my call," Peter claimed, but not before pulling both arms away from hitting range. "You'll have to ask Herr Lehnsherr's permission."

"You better not let him catch you calling him that," Toad muttered as he came down the stairs and entered their line of sight. "He'd kick your ass worse than I did."

Peter's playful pout twisted into an annoyed scowl. "You wish, Warty."

"Stop," Lorna scolded before the other teen could reply. "He'll maim you both if you don't shut it now." She pushed away from the table, and hopped off her seat. "You two better get going." She huffed. "Otherwise he'll do it anyway."

"Fine," Peter grumbled as he mimicked her movement. He looked down at his wristwatch. "The big guy said that our mutant habits Central Park in the evening. He's their secret gardener."

"What?" Toad snorted. "We're going after a gardener?"

"He's the garden," Peter rolled his eyes. "Dude, mutant? C'mon, I know I rattled that lil' peanut of yours, but get with it. Erik wouldn't send us after some vegetable grower if he wasn't the one doing the growing. Literally."

"Let's just go," the other teen growled.

Peter grinned, and gave Lorna two thumbs up.

* * *

The two teenagers entered the park just as the sun dipped behind the tall buildings of New York. The darkness was enveloping, and magnified by the massive forestry of the park before them, but it was also welcoming and brought with it a cool breeze that the sun couldn't diminish.

Peter raced ahead, despite Toad's warning about using their powers in public, and then raced back. He joyously beamed, cheeks pink with the movement, as his hair caught up with his ability and settled across his forehead. "Path is clear up ahead."

A leaf, crunchy and dark, floated down from a branch of a nearby tree that had been disturbed by Peter's speed. It drifted down and crossed in front of the bridge of Peter's nose. His brown eyes lit up, and he lifted an untied sneaker before happily stepping on it with all of his childish might. He twisted his foot back and forth – relishing the brittle sounds that filled the air.

"Child," Mort muttered underneath his breath.

Peter kicked at a fallen, orange leaf with naive glee before using his ability to run several circles around his recruitment partner. The few leaves he managed to scrounge up lifted in a small tornado of reds and auburn as he ran; his laughter ringing loudly in the toad-like teen's sensitive ears.

"Knock it off," Toad snapped. He winced as a whipped-up pine cone nicked his temple, and he swatted at the floating leaves in front of his face, before he finally resorted to lashing out with his tongue – literally. The move effectively tripped the other boy, and caused laughter to bubble up within his chest as the teen flew forward with a panicked yelp.

Peter, having sprawled out in an undignified heap a few feet away, lifted his head with a deep frown. There was a yellow leaf matted in his silver hair. He plucked it out with a jerky movement, and flicked it away. "Very funny," he groused. He pushed himself onto his knees, and brushed off mulch that had clumped to the front of his red and black AC/DC shirt.

"It was," Toad laughed. He lifted himself up back into a standing position, after he had slouched over in his laughter. He rubbed his nostrils with his index finger, and sniffled as if he was fighting off tears. "I'd say it was priceless, even."

Peter could feel the heat of his cheeks burning his flesh. He wasn't so much embarrassed, however, as he was peeved that he managed to allow the other teen to one-up him. But just as he stood to retaliate, a reedy voice cut through the darkness: "I saw that."

The pair froze in horror, and comically stared at one another with wide eyes. Peter slowly turned, and audibly gulped past the lump in his throat. He was fully aware that he and Toad could easily flee, but that didn't help the fact that they had just been caught using their abilities. Peter could almost feel Erik's piercing, rebuking stare on his skin.

A thin, gangly figure emerged from behind a row of untamed shrubs, and stood before them on the asphalt pathway. The park's lamps, sporadically placed throughout, barely lit up the man's face. It was obvious that he was darker in skin tone, and possibly not much older than the pair.

He offered them a nervous smile, and even went so far as to lift his long arms in the air, palms outward, in an attempt to qualm their fears. "I didn't mean to creep like that," he claimed. He jerked a thumb back towards the shrubs he had appeared from, "But I was working back there when I saw you two, and..." He trailed off and shook his head in astonishment. "That was totally awesome."

Peter cocked a brow, and glanced over his shoulder towards Mort. The other teen offered him a one-armed shrug, and that move seemed to physically inflate the silver-haired teen's chest as he took a overly confident step forward. He could practically hear Mort's eye roll.

"So," Peter drawled. He faltered, look down at his hands, and then back at the stranger. He shoved his left hand into the pocket of his jeans, and motioned at the space between the stranger and himself. He was a charismatic teenager, there was no doubt, but this was his first foray into an actual recruitment...and without his father by his side, no less. "So, yeah. That  _was_  awesome."

"Oh, for f-"

"Dude!" Peter cut off Toad's expletive.

The stranger lowered his hands, and laughed. "Yeah, it was pretty cool. Do you wanna see what I can do?" The question would have normally seemed cheesy and ominous, but the other man didn't appear to be trying anything threatening or funny with them. He seemed genuinely excited to have met people that were just like him.

Peter could recall the moment he found out that he wasn't alone when it came to abilities.

"Sure," Peter shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. His bravado eased and ebbed as he struggled to find the correct script to follow when it came to meeting fellow mutant strangers at night in a New York park – he was coming up blank.

However, no further words were apparently needed as the young man waggled his fingers like an epileptic magician, and caused the wild shrubs to expand and grow before they overflowed the part of the pathway he was standing on. He looked down at his work, and then looked back up.

"So?"

"So, Professor Xavier is going to be very interested in nurturing your ability."

The trio simultaneously turned to face a yellow and black clad duo standing to the right of them.

Peter nodded curtly at the pair. "Hank. Tattooed guy."

Toad scowled. "Ink. What are you doing with  _him_?"

The tattooed teenager mimicked Toad's expression, but instead of using his words to show his distaste, he lifted up an inked hand.

Hank frowned, then realized what that meant.

"No!"


	18. Chapter 18

Peter doubled over as he projectile vomited. He stumbled to the side, hands clutching at his aching and roiling stomach, and emitted a painfully deep groan. Although Peter wasn't paying him too much attention, it was obvious that Toad wasn't faring much better. The other teen appeared to have dropped down to his knees, his head bent toward the ground.

" _Ugh_ ," Peter moaned. He tripped over one of his laces, but managed to right himself against a metal railing that outlined the large park. He could feel flaky, black paint chips coat the palm of his hand from how hard he gripped the rail. He slowly loosened his fingers, one by one, and steadied his breathing. He heaved once more, but he didn't appear to be Ink's primary target.

More or less recovered, Peter scowled as he raced forward and tackled the vomit-inducing mutant at the waist. They fell backwards in a cacophony of muted grunts and sharply exhaled air, landing hard off the path. Peter was quick to his feet, and just barely managed to avoid a blow to the back of his head from the growling Beast.

The blue-furred mutant snarled as he swiped at the teen once more. He lumbered forward, and raised a thick arm to try again, but found himself unable to bring it down. He looked at what was hindering his movement, and growled in disgust at the long tongue that had wrapped itself around his wrist. He tugged hard, and offered a grin full of canine teeth when Toad was dragged a few feet closer.

Quicksilver, and that was who he was now, sped around the larger man and neatly jumped onto his back like a raging toddler. He pulled and grabbed at the blue fur with a ferocity that would have shocked the cattiest of school girls. The Beast could do nothing but yank his ensnared arm back and forth, like a dog playing tug-of-war, and swipe at his back like an enraged gorilla.

"A little help," he audibly grumbled to his companion.

The other half of the X-Men duo, simply standing on a grassy mound in his seething anger, offered a wordless nod. He darted to his left, toward the exposed Toad, and made as if he was going to tackle the teen as Quicksilver had just done to him. However, just as Toad was gearing up to launch a defensive maneuver to counter what he had thought was a telegraphed move, the inked teenager feinted to Toad's right and drew back his left fist.

There were several tattooed lines, starting from the tips of his fingers and going back to his wrist in evenly horizontal increments. The black ink rippled as he brought the fist across Toad's exposed face. The resulting punch rocked the Brotherhood mutant several yards back, but he managed to keep his hold on to Beast's arm – which in turn meant the haggard man was pulled along as well.

"Damn," Peter exclaimed with an almost jubilant glee. "Where  _did_  you get those tats?"

"Get off me!" The Beast shrugged his wide shoulders, twisted his neck, and arched his back in his failed attempts to loosen Peter's grip. "Get off, you brat!"

"Ooh, ride 'em, Coyboy!" the silver-haired teen crowed as he boldly let go with one hand, and waved it around in the cool, night air. "Just like the spaghetti movies!"

A multitude of thick, dark green vines erupted from the trees and wrapped themselves around the bare ankles of Beast. The large man roared in frustration when he tried to shake them loose, but to no avail. They steadily climbed up his legs, twisting solidly around his large thighs before cinching around his waist.

Simultaneously, the same lightening fast vines climbed up Toad's back, and coiled around his forehead. The forceful tug caused the teen to reluctantly release his hold on the furred scientist. Without anything to anchor him to the ground, the vines easily enveloped Toad in their powerful grip, and yanked him clear off the ground. He struggled as he dangled dangerously high above the others.

Peter leapt off Hank's back as the vines continued their path up the beast's waist, around his arms, and cinched around his throat like a noose. The teen raced to where Toad was raised, struggling to get free, and dodged a vine that snaked toward him. He reached out with one hand, and shoved the surprised Ink in front of him, and watched as the tattooed teen was caught up instead.

"Hey!"

Peter turned on his heel. The mutant they had originally come to recruit was standing behind the railing, his fingers twirling and his wrists rotating like a conductor at a podium. Their eyes met, and Peter was almost sure that the mutant was going to try and come after him again, but instead he glanced away and studied his handiwork.

"When I let them go," he called out, "Leave."

"What?" Peter's incredulous tone echoed in the night.

"I said just leave!" he shouted back. "I don't want to be a part of this. Any part," he looked up at the X-Men at this. "I'll let your guy go first. Just leave."

"But-" Peter rolled his eyes. "Man, I can't fail on this too."

"Dude," the mutant shrugged, "Not my problem."

* * *

Erik slammed his hand against the side of his television set. The small box emitted a horrid screech, and nearly flew across the room. The dresser that it rested upon shook underneath the force, but didn't collapse within itself much to Erik's surprise. The metal-bender curled his lip as the static only increased under his vehement ministrations.

" _In other new-"_

The TV's sound cut in and out as Erik stepped back, and sat on the edge of his queen-sized bed. He raised a hand and used his ability to turn the knobs back and forth.

_"-was cornered by an angry mob of civilians-"_

That caught the mutant's attention. He slowly lowered his hand to his thigh, and leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. With a furrowed brow, he strained to catch the discordant voices on the news station he had stopped at. The picture on the screen was small, and intermittently cut to peppered static, but it seemed as if that was as good as Erik was going to get.

_"Although no one was hurt during the fire, the people of New York are both frightened and angry. The mutant, who witnesses have described as a young, Caucasian woman, was said to have fled into this abandoned warehouse behind me. It appears there is a stalemate at the moment – neither mutant or humans have made a move in the last ten minutes."_

Erik's ears roared as he narrowed his eyes in anger. He imperceptibly tightened his jaw until it ached in the back of his molars.  _How_ dare  _they_ , he mentally growled.  _How dare they!_

_It will always be like this. It will never change. Charles Xavier knows nothing._

Erik bodily pulled himself to his feet, and strode the few feet between the end of his bed, and the dresser pressed against the opposite wall. He trained his eyes on the flickering screen, trying to discern the location of the anchor, as he flicked a hand in the air. The second dresser drawer jerked out at the motion, and he angrily clutched a black polo before slamming the drawer shut.

He tugged on the shirt as he turned back to the bed. He motioned towards the door, and it flew open with a bang. "Dukes!"

The metal-bender sat on the bed again, and proceeded to pull on his shoes. "Dukes. Now!"

It was if the entirety of the house shook as the man nosily bounded down the hallway, and burst into Erik's room. He appeared out of breath, although his own bedroom was only a few yards away. "Yeah, boss!" He heavily leaned against the door frame, and ignored the soft splintering cracks it made underneath his heavy mass.

"I need you to stay here, and watch over Lorna." He tied off the last shoelace, and stood. Now, fully dressed, he was as sleek and imposing as ever. He leveled the other mutant with his piercing stare. "You  _will_  make sure nothing happens to her during my absence. Do I make myself clear?"

"Like glass, boss."

Erik managed to not roll his eyes as he breezed past the other man. He bounded down the stairs, and into the dining room. Dukes loudly followed behind. Erik immediately glanced into the attached living room, where he was almost always sure to find his youngest playing. Sure enough, the green-haired child was sitting in the middle of the room, entertaining herself with cut-out paper dolls.

"Lorna."

The stunningly green eyes snapped up. She stood and rounded the couch with a grin. Erik crouched, and toyed with a few loose strands of her pigtails. The little girl's beam faltered. "What's wrong, daddy?"

"I need to go," he stated clearly. "There's a mutant in need of help right now. Dukes will be watching you while I'm gone. Do you understand?"

Her lower lip jutted out further, and she even brazenly crossed her arms over her chest. "Really?" she complained. "I never get to go anywhere or do anything."

"That's not true," Erik claimed, but his tone was firm and ended that train of conversation effectively. "There's no discussion to be had. You're staying." He stood, and offered an awkward pat to her shoulder. He was still trying to work on this father/daughter thing.

Erik stalked out of the living area, and towards the main door. It flung back so suddenly that Erik was nearly taken out, but he managed to narrowly avoid breaking his nose. The indentations in the middle of his brow felt like they were going to permanently stay.

"Peter," he half greeted. "Where's Mort?"

"Here," the teen called out as he literally hopped up the driveway. "We had a bit of a hiccup-"

Erik waved his hand in the air in a dismissive manner. "We'll worry about that later. I need you to come with me now. We seem to have a riot brewing on our hands."

Peter's eyes lit up, and Erik wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The teens turned and ran towards the parked car, while Erik stepped outside.

"Dukes?"

The huge man lumbered to the open doorway.

"Yeah, boss?" His breathing couldn't have possibly gotten heavier in three steps.

"If you so much as  _think_  of laying one chubby finger on my daughter's head, I will personally make sure you die choking on those beautiful,  _metal_  fillings of yours."

Erik offered the man a grin; all glistening, white teeth and no trace of humor.

"Like glass, boss," Dukes managed to choke out. "Like glass."


	19. Chapter 19

Charles Xavier's head was studiously bent over a sheaf of loose leaf papers – the majority of which was filled with his own neat and slightly slanted scrawl. His forehead wrinkled as he deepened the furrow of his dark brow, before he huffed, vigorously erased something that didn't quite fit, and then placed his right elbow atop the ornate desk. He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, and pursed his cherry red lips in mild frustration.

"Damn," he lightly sighed as he erased an entire sentence.

A soft knock at his study door was followed by, "Knock knock, Professor." Hank poked his head and upper torso through the crack. "I brought you something to eat."

The clean-cut man waved his pencil-laden hand noncommittally in the air. He hadn't bothered to raise his sulk of a glare away from the work-in-progress spread out before him. "Blasted proposal is harder to write the second time 'round," he grumbled aloud.

Hank shouldered the door open further as he suppressed an affable smile at the professor's good natured mutterings. He lifted the silver tray he carried in both of his hands a little higher, and cheerfully called out, "I have tea!"

That grabbed Charles' attention faster than any warning yells of an impending doom would have. His dark haired head snapped up, and a relieved grin quickly demolished the grim frown that had been tugging at the edges of his lips. "Tea? Why didn't you say so, Hank. Come in, come in!" He eagerly dropped the pencil he clutched in his hand atop the desk's surface, and beckoned the taller youth closer. "I can't bear this damned paper a moment longer."

Hank nimbly crossed the study, and placed the tray atop a previously cleared off end table. "It's not going too well, I take it?" He turned over twin white, ceramic mugs before lifting the tea kettle and pouring a healthy amount into the both of them. "Why don't you just dust off the first one you wrote?"

Charles, in the meantime, had managed to push himself away from the desk, round the corner, and wheel himself to his former pupil's side. "I wish I could," he chuckled wistfully, "But it's clear that this school is going to need more than a little cleaning up – which, I dare say, warrants more than a little explaining." He eagerly accepted the proffered mug. "Thank you." He took a brisk gulp of the robust beverage, closed his eyes, and hummed in deep appreciation. "That hits the spot. Well done."

Hank nodded curtly, took a more careful sip of his own hot tea, and licked his lips. "Well," he swiped at his moist bottom lip with a thumb, "I'm sure you'll get her back up and running in no time."

"Mm," Charles hummed in agreement; a mouthful of blistering tea pushing his cheeks out.

The lanky young man found himself wondering if and when Charles had managed to burn away the last of the nerves within the inside of those cheeks. Immediately after the thought crossed his mind, the man in question turned his face to peer up at Hank, and lifted one side of his mouth in a familiar smirk. Hank dipped his head, and blushed under the knowing, blue-eyed stare.

"Uh, should I turn on the TV?" Hank offered as he made to move towards the little, stationary set in the corner. He peeked behind the set, as if making sure the few wires attached to it were indeed connected, before he knelt before the TV. "Maybe get your mind off that proposal for a few?"

Charles gingerly chewed on his lower lip in thought before he nodded in agreement. "Hell, why not. It's not as if there is a deadline." He placed the now empty mug of tea back onto the metal tray, and brushed off imaginary dirt from his trouser-clad thighs. "It'd do me a load of good to clear my head a bit," he laughed at the irony of his statement.

 _"I'll say_ ," Hank thought.

 _"Agreed_ ," was the answering echo in his mind.

Hank started at the intruding thought, and smiled meekly at the other man. However, he was cordially dismissed with the wave of Charles' hand. So, he turned back to the TV set and fiddled with one of the knobs until he settled on one of the few channels whose picture didn't wobble or shake with intermittent static. "I'm going to have to fix that," he noted with a frown.

"In due time, Hank," Charles threw in as he wheeled himself closer, "In due time. In the meanwhile, I'll take any reprieve I can bloody well get."

Hank offered the seated man a sideways glance, a pinched smile on his youthful face, before he directed his attention back to the wooden box in front of him. He twisted a smaller knob, effectively turning up the volume, before he stood and dusted off his knees. "Well," he began as he picked his way toward the sole double door, "I need to get back to work."

"You're more than welcome to join me," Charles said over his shoulder.

Hank shrugged. "I wouldn't be able to focus," he admitted. "There's still a lot of cleaning up to do. Call me if you need anything, and-" he blatantly pointed at the now uncovered sandwich on the tray, "You'll eat by the time I come back."

The last uttered statement reminded Charles that underneath the meek and docile Hank McCoy lie a magnificently strong beast. Charles turned his chair so that he could better see the other man, and bowed his head in a playfully mocking manner. "Yes, dear."

The speed of which the beast was able to revert back to his usual, demure self was almost astonishing – if Charles hadn't been privy to this transformation on a daily basis. Despite that, however, it was still always fascinating to witness. In response to Charles playful jibe, Hank blushed furiously and shook his head. The move jostled his thick-framed glasses, and he pushed them back up with his index finger. "Well, I'll uh, be back in a few." He ducked out before Charles could rib him any further.

The telepathic man happily grinned, and turned back to the television set. He watched a few ads in mild amusement, and even sat still for the announced weather (despite having not stepped foot outside in favor of completing his personally set tasks over a morning stroll – so to speak.) The jovial grin remained in place while the news anchors returned and began their set pieces, and then the upturned lips slowly drifted downward until his thick lips were pressed into a thin line.

_"Although no one was hurt during the fire, the people of New York are both frightened and angry. The mutant, who witnesses have described as a young, Caucasian woman was said to have fled into this abandoned warehouse behind me. It appears there is a stalemate at the moment – neither mutant or humans have made a move in the last ten minutes."_

_It will always be like this. It will never change._ A phantom echo of pain lanced through his jaw, as if he had spent the majority of the evening grinding his back teeth together. Charles felt an ache blossom underneath the skin between his dark brows, and a resounding ring in his ears. His usually warm gaze turned steely, and narrowed in on the familiar looking building being featured on the screen.

The mutant had spent the majority of his life growing up in The Empire State, and easily recognized the warehouse currently being showcased on the news. He struggled to recall the exact address as he lifted his left hand to the temple of his forehead. He sent an urgent, mental call to Hank.

Hank, who actually hadn't made it very far in the past few minutes, was quick to reenter the study. "What's wrong?" His unassuming tone was firm in its worry. Charles was proud to admit that the younger mutant was able to read him as well as  _he_  could any other living being.

Hank strode past the uneaten sandwich, and to the professor's side. The other man pointed at the screen, and Hank paused to watch the segment with an increasing throb of anxiety worrying in the back of his throat. "That's not good," he managed to utter past the lump.

"No," Charles curtly agreed. "And it must be stopped before someone gets hurt – or worse."

"How?" Hank peered down. "It's not as if they'd let us walk through."

Charles smiled grimly; all white, clenched teeth and no trace of humor. "No, they wouldn't." He paused. "Unless they did," he waggled a few fingers in the direction of his temple. "Something needs to be done – preferably before the situation escalates."

The younger man agreed silently, and began to pat his trouser pockets in search of something. He came up empty, unsurprisingly, and jerked a thumb toward the doorway. "I'm going to bring the car around. Can you make it to the front?"

A perked, dark brow met him in lieu of a verbal reply. "Right." He nearly tripped over his gangly legs in his attempt to add haste, but then paused when he finally did reach the doorway.

Before he could open his mouth, Charles sighed and turned his chair around. "I'm right behind you, Hank." Maybe the younger mutant couldn't read Charles as well as he had initially thought.

Hank nodded gratefully to the response, and tore out of the room. Charles followed behind a little slower (mindful of the traction his wheels had on the thick carpet, and of the occasional snag the mechanics of the chair hit.) He had managed to roll himself out into the large, dark hallway before a stray thought managed to pique his interest:  _Charles Xavier knows nothing._

It wasn't his voice or thought. It wasn't Hank's. It was wholly familiar, and equally as frightening. The internal voice was as tight as the grip Charles clutched the arms of his chair with. The telepath was suddenly feeling the first stirrings of his own anxiety in a long while.

_"Hank, we're going to need to call in reinforcements."_

_"The X-Men?"_

_"Most certainly."_

Charles wheeled himself down the hall, and repeated the stray thought again. Deep, menacing, angry...so very, very angry. Charles sighed, and closed his eyes. "Hello, old friend."


	20. Chapter 20

Despite the fact that the mansion was currently under a state of restoration and general sprucing up, the telepathic professor had deemed it (unofficially) open to any and all mutants. It didn't take the young man long to remember that many of his fellow ability-inclined brethren were still being outcast from their families, and ostracized from society; they had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. So, he attempted to reach out as far as he could, to those willing to accept his gentle intrusion, and share his home with any one of them that were interested: many of them were.

While the fact that so many mutants were interested in joining him at his school and home overjoyed him, he was also silently delighted that the majority had limited means of transportation – the mansion wasn't  _actually_  complete, and there really wasn't room for all of them just yet. That, along with the fact that nearly all of them would be without the proper training and honing of their particular skills, was something that Charles was also immensely glad of.

Much of this crossed Charles' mind as he wheeled himself down the expansive hall of the first floor. He rolled through the foyer with practiced ease, and only stopped when he finally reached the threshold of the main door. He allowed his sharp, blue eyes to graze across the mess of his so-called front yard as he brought two fingers to his temple, and mentally called out to his companion.

_"Hank?"_

_"I'm just starting her up."_ The usually meek tone of voice sounded more than a little annoyed, but Charles could tell it wasn't anything personal directed towards him.

_"Just?"_ Charles let a little of his sarcasm seep through, but accompanied it with a fleeting, telepathic equivalent of a smirk.

_"Well, if your garage wasn't so far away-"_

_"Right, right. Well, jog on."_ He had just begun to pull his hand away from his face when he was struck by another thought.  _"Who_ have _you managed to reach?"_

The young scientist had come across a remarkable invention that hadn't truly been capitalized on during the early 60's, and had cleverly taken it apart and remodeled it to fit the needs of an X-Men. The paging system he had upgraded was able to reach longer distances, and to contact more than one person at a time. He had rigged it so that, with a push of a button, the pagers he had doled out to the others would light up and beep – necessitating their arrival during potentially dire situations. It was still a little buggy, and it didn't hurt that the few people Hank had given his prototype to were not actually that far away from the mansion itself.

It did occur to the relatively novice inventor that the pagers wouldn't show exactly where the X-Men were needed or what they would possibly be facing, but that was temporarily remedied by informing them to just show up at the mansion (where a brief note of some sort would give them the mere basics.) Charles had quickly pointed out that that could cost them time that they would possibly need during whatever situation they could be facing – so the scientist rigged the pagers to light up, shake and beep, and have a succinct text that gave them a locale.

After some fooling around with the little project, Hank eventually added a single, capitalized letter that followed the texted location – each indicating the seriousness of the situation. He and Charles agreed that they wouldn't send out a page unless the circumstance called for it, but they also knew they needed to categorize  _even_  that: "M" was to be mild, stating that they needn't hurry, and that they would probably be there for a helpful clean up. "L" was to be laborious, meaning they would be needed to help fight or contain whatever problem the team may be facing. "A" was apocalyptic – they were needed fast, and they were needed yesterday.

It did occur to Hank to ask Charles why he couldn't just telepathically reach out to the others, but the professor was reluctant to offer a real explanation; Hank was sure it had something to do with the fact that he was still struggling to regain a literal, mental balance. As it was, despite all the work Hank had put into the pagers and all the plans they had when utilizing them, they had actually  _yet_  to put them to use. The scientist fervently hoped they would work.

_"Hank? Hank, are you listening?"_

_"Uh, yes. Yeah, sorry. I sent out a page to Ink and Havok-"_ the younger man's voice was as stilted and awkward in Charles' mind as it was spoken aloud.  _"I thought about Warren, but-"_

_"But you didn't?"_  There was an affirmative hum. _"Good."_ Charles sighed. Ink had come across the young adolescent not long ago, and had tried to convince him to join them at the school, but the family's hold over the child was more overbearing than they had initially thought. Although, judging from what Charles had briefly gleaned from Warren's father, it probably wouldn't take that much convincing anyway.

The school hadn't even started up again, and there were already problems cropping up: Ink and Beast's run in with Magneto's little faction, for example. Warren was the least of his worries, but he was still a worry.

A sharp honk jolted Charles from his mini reverie. He pushed forward, and easily rolled down a wooden ramp that was put out for him until they managed to get around to fixing that as well. Charles could feel another deep sigh bubbling up at the back of his throat as he reached the passenger door. Hank had already leapt out, and rounded the running vehicle.

"I think we need to hurry," he stated with more than a little worry coating his words. He rushed about, aiding Charles out of his chair, and into the car. "The radio says the mob is escalating. I'm pretty sure someone got hurt, but they're not saying who or how badly."

"Bloody fantastic," Charles grumbled as he settled into his seat, and buckled his seatbelt. He could only hope they reached the poor mutant before a certain someone else did. "Let's go then!"

* * *

Erik could feel himself pressing his lips thinner and thinner until he was sure that they were nothing but a pair of pink-tinged white flesh standing out against his slightly tanned skin. He knew for fact that the knuckles of his hands looked just as similar; he had a clear view of them - both wrapped around the steering wheel tightly.

A now familiar tic began pulsing against the muscle of his lower jaw as he fastened his steely gaze on the rear view mirror. He wasn't sure if he actually wanted to make eye contact with his son or not – yet he found himself inexplicably disappointed when the teen didn't return the gaze. Instead, the teen had his nose pressed flat against the window pane. His fingers, similarly pushed against the thin glass, left visible smudges when he finally dragged them away.

"We're going  _so_ slow," the teen drawled miserably. He pulled his face away from the glass, and slumped in his seat. Erik was surprised the teen didn't go as far as crossing his arms across his chest.

"We're speeding," Morty grumbled from where he sat in the passenger seat. "We're literally going as fast as this car allows."

Peter silently moved his lips in a mocking manner, more than likely repeating what the other teen had said, before he rolled his gray eyes and looked out the car. "At this rate, we'll miss the whole she-bang." He offered an almost wistful sigh, and then actually did fold his arms across his abdomen.

Erik's grip tightened impossibly further, to the point where his fingers began to ache in protest, but he said nothing as the teen continued to complain to himself. The metal-bender looked askance to the Vietnam veteran, and shook his head. They were children, his children or children under his care, and here he was – dragging them into the fray without a seconds thought.

He almost felt guilty as he pressed his foot down a little harder on the gas pedal. But a quick look in the rear view mirror reflected a widening grin on his son's face, and suddenly Erik could almost care less that he was flying through back roads at literal, break-neck speeds. That boy's expression, pure jubilation at something as simple as going fast, burned in the foreground of the metal-bender's mind. Erik, fighting off a minuscule smile of his own, pressed down even further.

Morty couldn't help his instinctual recoil as brambles scratched and pounded against his side of the vehicle. He tampered down his mild disgust at his reaction, but couldn't help but grimace as the car bounced particularly hard over misshapen rocks at near violent speeds.

The silver-haired teen in the back popped his lips noisily before he used the handle of the car door to pull himself up further. He ran a hand through his locks, scraping dirty fingernails against his scalp, before he scratched the base of his neck and shrugged. "So, what's the plan, old man?"

Erik's face tightened perceptibly. The pupils of his pale eyes seemed to narrow themselves into twin, pinpoints of absolute black. A muscle in his jaw forcibly jumped, and yet he still didn't answer. When he finally did dreg forth a reply, his voice was thick with unrepentant, righteous anger.

"We save the mutant."

The Toad nodded in agreement, as if Erik's plan was a given. "And?"

"And we stop anyone or anything that gets in our way."


	21. Chapter 21

Later, when weary teens threw themselves onto carpeted floors and men with muddled heads lay against pillows in desperate need of comfort, Erik would think that he wouldn't be able to precisely recall how or when he arrived at the warehouse. His amiable counterpart, on the other hand, would likely have the memory forever engraved in the back of his brilliantly expansive mind. He would be able to recall the smell of burning rubber as both of their cars pulled up short before an amassed, angry crowd; the flickering of flames as many lit the ends of rag-stuffed bottles, and the bellowed chant: "Mutants must die!"

Charles, bottom lip raw and red from excessive chewing, slammed his eyes closed and immediately reached out with one hand, as the other raised to his temple. He called for peace, called for their dismantlement, but knew his mental cries would be in vain if his former friend didn't desist from grabbing any sliver of metal he could find on their bodies, and keep from throwing them across the street in his blinding rage.

It took but a fleeting moment, a desperate shout to one mind in particular, to cease the pandemonium in its tracks; the metal-bender froze in his place - hands raised, fingers splayed out - all pointing toward their intended victims. Charles knew he could could easily overtake the other man, knew he could use his ability to manipulate Erik to his every whim. The man arrived without a helmet, after all. However, Charles chose to not to. He would wax poetic about hindsight later.

Instead, Charles willed the crowd to forget why they had arrived, and to leave in their collective confusion without an inkling as to why they were there in the first place. Some, bruised and battered after having been tossed about like rag dolls, rubbed at sore backsides and threw bemused expressions towards the only man that didn't appear to be leaving like the rest. The metal-bender simply glowered after them, fingers twitching by his side, but he managed to refrain from resuming his initial task.

It didn't take long, and when the road finally cleared all that remained was the small faction of mutants. Charles, blue eyes narrowed in on his target, maintained his stare through the ash-smeared windshield as he calmly asked Hank for his assistance in getting out of the running vehicle. The young man, skin tinged an almighty blue and eyes glinting yellow in the pale sunlight, swallowed roughly before he finally nodded in acquiescence. He turned the ignition off, opened the door, and slowly unfolded his lean figure from the car. He waited by the door for a moment, yellowed-eyes trained on Erik's motionless form, before he slammed the door shut and slowly rounded the front of the vehicle.

"It's alright," Charles softly called out. He hadn't torn his watery gaze from Erik's incredibly tense form since the road finally cleared. He thought he would suffocate on the phantom anger that was enveloping him. "He won't do anything."

Hank huffed underneath his breath, possibly muttering something out of earshot, but he made no other sound. At least out loud he hadn't made a remark. Internally he was raging and seething and thinking thoughts that had Charles' upper lip twitching in amusement.

Across the street, several yards in front of the immobile car, Erik was similarly as silent. His sharp, caustic gaze raked over the pair as they worked together to remove Charles from the vehicle and into his simplistic wheelchair. Erik couldn't help the snarl that tugged at his mouth. He didn't think this was a sight he would ever get used to, nor did he think that the oppressing blanket of guilt that he felt wrapped in every time he saw the chair would ever go away. Regardless of whatever slight, mental assurances he could physically feel wafting from Charles' direction.

There was a sound of gravel being scuffed before Toad muttered from the side of his mouth, "I'm going inside. The mutant could be hurt, and I have some knowledge in basic first aid." Erik heard rather than saw the teen start to turn and walk off, before the younger man added, "And I'm really not feeling a stare-down at the moment."

Peter huffed in mild laughter as he agreed. He scratched his chest. "Yeah, this geezer reunion is bumming me out." He shook his head, fringe vigorously falling before his eyes. "I'm following frog-man on this one, Pops." He dusted off flakes of ash that had settled on his shoulder. "We'll see you inside."

Erik's shirt ruffled as Peter sped off, but he didn't move otherwise. His pale eyes, pointedly trained yet unseeing on the thin wheels of Charles' chair, coasted up until they took in Hank's slender form. The younger man was visibly struggling against his urges; he very clearly wanted to give into his inner beast, and tear the metal-bender to pieces. Erik's upper lip pricked up in a mild smirk. He almost wished the furry animal would. However, Erik recalled how easily detained the other mutant was after their last encounter – introducing metal to one's flailing limbs usually kept them from going anywhere.

Hank wouldn't be a threat.

Charles' brow visibly furrowed from across the way, and he risked a quick glance up. He reached to his side, intending to touch the sleeve of Hank's jacket in order to get his attention, when the sound of another vehicle pulling up startled him from his task. The trio turned to watch as a motorcycle skid to the side of Charles' car. Immediately two recognizable figures leapt off.

"Glad you boys could make it," Charles greeted offhandedly.

"Let's finish this before it starts," Alex growled as he lifted his arms and prepared to let loose an energy blast in Erik's direction. The older man didn't even bat an eye.

It was Ink, not Charles, that placed a hand on Alex's forearm. "Slow down, hotshot." He motioned towards the professor with his chin. "Let's see what the Professor has in mind."

"I see you've brought the whole clan," Erik called out. His voice was thick; full of grit and restrained, self-righteous anger. Then there was a clear sneer that pulled at his face. "You always did have others fight your battles for you, Charles."

Charles caught the sharp flash of anger as easily as he heard the clear growl at his side, but he wasn't fast enough to understand the meaning behind them both. When the realization struck him, and he lifted a nimble hand to prevent his boys from attacking, he was too late. Alex had let his anger best him, and a single blast of energy had already been expelled in Erik's direction.

Erik, much to Charles' relief and annoyance, knew that his words would evoke an attack. He was already gone from the space that Alex lit aflame with his power. Charles snapped forward, his hand catching Alex's wrist in a painful grip. He tugged the teen close, and glared up at him.

"That's enough!"

"But-" Alex cut his protest off and angrily shook his head. "Let's go, Ink. He went inside." He yanked his arm from Charles' grip and raced forward, Ink hesitantly at his heels.

"Professor."

Charles looked up, and saw Hank transformed into his X-Men persona: Beast.

"Professor," Hank's usually demure voice was now a deep grumble, "They're right. We can't let Magneto carry on. We'll have a White House situation all over again. He needs to be stopped."

The professor closed his eyes, and shook his head.

"Let's just get inside, shall we?" Charles motioned towards the back of his chair, and was thankful that Beast understood his meaning. The blue-furred man grabbed the handles, and easily maneuvered the rocky terrain before them. A clear explosion rocked the ground they stood on, and Charles had to refrain from losing his mind entirely.

"Faster would be better," he ground out between clenched teeth.


	22. Chapter 22

The thin, paper cut-out yielded easily to Lorna's clenched fist. She glanced down at her hand, frowning when she opened it to reveal a crumpled little woman. The carefully drawn face still smiled up at her, however, despite the crinkles and folds.

Lorna's dark brow furrowed as she took in the permanently beaming face with large, luminous green eyes. A pang of longing resounded in her bones as she suddenly wished there was corporeal version of the little woman; someone who would look at her with that same, radiant smile. She thought about asking Jason to create an illusion just for her, but remembered that her pseudo-brother was still out on one of her father's "super secret missions."

Her lower lip jutted out a little further, effectively transforming her frown to a mild pout.

A raucous snore, steady and even despite the harshness of the sound, emitted from one of the couches. Lorna shot a glare in its direction, in spite of the fact that the human blob was currently knocked out. It didn't stop her from secretly wishing that the ferocity of the look would at least burn a hole in the side of the man's skin. When it didn't, she heaved a put upon sigh and tossed the crumpled ball of paper to the ground. It rolled across the rug (that she had demanded they keep,) before it settled underneath the couch that was unoccupied.

"This isn't fair," she groused underneath her breath. She was perfectly aware that it would probably take a little more than an earthquake of the greatest magnitude to rouse her sleeping babysitter, but it didn't stop her from trying to keep her voice low.

She studied the cut-outs of familiar faces lying on the ground in front of her, before she gingerly picked up the paper man with steady fingers. This one didn't have a smile, but instead an expression of seriousness. Lorna's hand twitched as she made to close it around the flimsy piece of paper, but the motion sparked a dreadful thought of something similar happening to her father.

She sharply looked up, eyes resting on the Blob, before she looked back down at the paper man she nearly destroyed. What if someone with the same powers as the mutant she and Jason had rescued her brother and father from tried to attack them? She wouldn't be there to help this time, and that sent an overwhelming feeling of anxiety down her spine. She surged to her sock-clad feet, paper man clutched tightly in her grasp, and raced toward the stairway.

Lorna took the steps in pairs, nearly tripping in her haste. She stumbled at the top of the stairway, the momentum from her speed nearly carrying her the rest of the way down the hall, but a subconscious use of her ability gently tugged her body toward the screws in the wall's baseboard, and slowed her headlong descent. She stopped in front of her father's door, hesitating at the ominous looking wood despite the fact that the door was identical to all the others in the house, before she finally opened it.

A slight wave of her hand turned the television set on, and Lorna was glad that the channel remained on the news she knew her father continuously watched. She stood before the set, unable to see the small picture very well from where her father usually perched on the edge of the bed, and took in the all the information that the station replayed and relayed.

It didn't take very long to get the necessary facts she needed to track her family down, and without a thought to Dukes, who was dead to the world in the living room, Lorna flew towards her own bedroom and threw out her hand. Her ability easily called out her pair of shoes neatly tucked underneath her bed, and the thin jacket hanging off its wooden post. She made short work of tugging on the clothing, before she ran down the stairs and out the front door.

Now, to figure out how to actually get to where the warehouse was at.

* * *

"That is enough!" Charles cried out as he and his blue-furred companion burst into warehouse. The fighting, thankfully, ceased at his immediate command – save for a red blast of energy that dissipated a little too close to Charles' feet. Charles raised a sole brow at the cause of the near mishap, and was rewarded with a sheepish expression from the sullen-faced young man.

Hank carefully pushed Charles' chair forward, keeping it steady as he pushed the thin wheels over upturned cement and concrete chunks. When it settled on a flat part of the floor, he relinquished his hold on the handles and prowled to the left of the room without a word. Charles wheeled himself to the right, where the outskirts of the mound of rubble the boys were standing atop seemed relatively free of debris. His chair lurched once as it went over a stray rock, but he easily steadied it and circled the massive mound entirely.

Now that he was on the opposite side, Charles pursed his lips and cast a world-weary gaze upward. The teenagers stared back down at him, each internally humming with a mixture of anticipation and nervous energy. Some were more eager to return to the fray than the others, and it saddened Charles that at least one of those young minds belonged to his particular little group.

In fact, now that Charles had focused his attention on studying those young minds, he realized that the group only consisted of Ink, Havok, and Quicksilver. He was fully aware that Hank was several yards behind him, thrumming with an unusually animalistic need to hunt, and that beyond him was Erik, another boy the same age as the others, and the mind of a scared and hurt teenage girl.

Charles sighed, and drummed his fingers against his unfeeling thigh. "Hank, please stay here and keep an eye on these boys." He felt rather than heard Hank agree to the task. "Boys," he addressed them firmly, but kept his expression open and friendly, "I'm asking that you refrain from beating each other senseless."

"But-"

"C'mon!"

"Please?"

Charles gave them a level look.

There was discordant grumble of protest, but they ultimately agreed. Charles was pleased that he didn't need to use his ability to convince a bunch of teenagers to not fight one another, but couldn't help a slight frown to pull at his lips when Havok sat himself down rather hard, as if he was on the verge of throwing a monumental temper tantrum. Ink simply slid down the rock pile, and sat at the base of it with a general sense of indifference about him. Quicksilver looked rather conflicted, his brown eyes roving to the others and then back to Charles. He finally huffed, visibly pouted, and mimicked Havok's move.

"Right," Charles sighed again. He easily wheeled himself backward, turned, and proceeded forward. The main room of the warehouse was vast; the far right wall was lined with a handful of closed doors, each holding an office-sized room behind it. They were inconsequential to Charles' current task, however. He could easily feel the near overpowering yet very familiar rage that Erik always emanated just ahead.

Charles started forward, keeping to the right of the warehouse, slightly wary of the massive pillars that were evenly spaced in the center of the room. They were thick enough to prevent Charles from physically seeing the trio until he wheeled around the last one. He pulled up short, nearly putting himself and the chair into the back of a physically deformed teen sporting a pair of goggles.

Erik's pale eyes snapped up, meeting his for a brief moment, before they settled back to the hunched form resting her back against the concrete column. The metal-bender was crouched before her, his body tense, but his expression solemn. The teenager, Morty was the name he mentally supplied, was tending to a deep gash at the girl's temple. The blood appeared to have stopped running long ago, but still gleamed wet underneath the bright lights high above the group.

"Hello," Charles greeted warmly. "My name is Charles Xavier."

Erik shot him a distrustful glance. Charles could tell that his former friend was shielding himself the best he could, and Charles allowed Erik the illusion that he was doing as good a job as he thought he was. Charles even allowed himself to mentally prod at the shields, deepening Erik's initial expression, but causing Charles to internally smirk.

"We're here to help you," Erik finally said. His voice was as firm as it ever was, but there was a notable softness that rounded the sharp edges. "We want you to come with us," his eyes once again met Charles, "Where we'll clean you up and keep you safe." The gray eyes were almost challenging Charles now. He almost wanted to retort back, but a brief thought that wasn't his own entered his mind.

 _"Safe_."

Charles' eyes narrowed. That voice, that mental imprint, was not unknown to him. He shifted in his chair, and took in the huddled form. She appeared to be in the same age group as the boys, although she projected a fairly reticent front that made her seem younger. Her hair, long and dark, was entangled over one slender shoulder. The girl's eyes, previously navel-gazing, slowly drifted up to take in her apparent saviors. Her eyes were light brown and naturally large, but somehow fit well with her soft features. She was a pretty girl, with an upturned nose and full set of pink lips.

"That's right," Erik was murmuring to Charles' left.

"Erik," Charles didn't pull away his eyes from the girl's face, eerily becoming more and more recognizable with each passing second.

The metal-bender scowled.

"Erik, old friend." Charles reached out, his hand stopping short of being able to reach Erik's hunched shoulder. "I believe we need to talk."

Erik's stomach flipped at the projected sense of urgency he felt. "There's nothing to talk about, Charles." Erik's tone of voice was sharp, full of warning if Charles kept pushing.

Morty frowned, and glanced up. "We need to get her back to the house," he announced softly. "She's more than likely concussed, and I'm pretty sure a good washing up will definitely make her feel better." He glanced over at the wheelchair-bound man.

"Astute observation, Mortimer," Charles announced without tearing his eyes from where they were locked on to Erik's.

Morty's frown deepened, but he didn't question how Charles knew his name. Instead, he turned back to the girl in front of him. He carefully dabbed at her temple with the torn-off sleeve of his shirt, and shook his head. The tension emitting from the other two was palpable.

Charles opened his mouth to speak once again, determined to get Erik to speak with him, but a sharp cry of pain filled the warehouse. Erik surged to his feet at an amazing speed, face drawn and hands clenched into fists as he ran forward. Charles stomach flipped in a sudden rush of anxiety.

"Shit! It was an accident! Is she okay?"

That was Alex.

"Daddy!"

That was definitely not.


	23. Final Chapter

"Back off!" Erik's barked snarl made Charles wince.

The floppy-haired professor held up a hand toward the startled Morty and teen girl, hoping the movement placated their obvious apprehension, but feared the sudden move may have alarmed them even more. Morty, in fact, didn't appear to be at all worried that Erik was shouting, but more concerned about the cause of it. The little girl's voice was evidently known to him as well.

Charles made quick work of wheeling himself backward, and then toward where he and Hank had entered minutes before. He almost sent the chair into a slide when he abruptly stopped, even kicking up a bit of fine brown dust at his movement. His nose twitched, but he managed to refrain from sneezing. He didn't think the seriousness of the situation warranted an awkward sternutation.

"I said  _back_!" Erik threw out his hand and sent the four boys flying, his own son included. Charles felt his chair slide a few inches, and he threw out his hands to tightly grasp the handles of his seat in case he fell off, but he was otherwise unharmed.

It took all of Charles' brilliant willpower to keep himself from being suddenly thrown into a flashback of an all too similar situation, years before.  _We'll always have Cuba_  did manage to slip across his mind before he wrangled the stray, sardonic thought. He allowed himself an internal sigh of relief when he realized that he didn't project that particular line to the distraught man just out of his sight.

"What's going on?" He cast deeply worried eyes over the group in front of him. Physically, they all appeared fine. Hank was grumbling, near growling as he pushed himself off the floor and dusted the seat of his jeans. Ink and Pietro were casting one another wary glances as they stood up next to each other. It was as if they expected the other to attack without warning. Alex pushed himself up to his knees, swiped at a trickle of blood that flowed from his nose, before he stood too.

Mentally, however, Charles' mind was suddenly alight with thoughts of "s _orry, sorry, sorry,"_  " _is she okay? Please be okay_ ," and loudest of all " _my baby, my little girl, Anya. My Anya is burning_." Charles forced himself to throw up a shield against the onslaught of memories of a screaming toddler being burned alive. He felt sick to his stomach.

"I didn't mean it, Professor," Alex's deep voice was surprisingly controlled now. "She just came running in, and I-" He made a vague motion at his chest. "I just went off."

"Erik?" Charles cautiously rounded the mass of debris. It was difficult to see over it, especially in his permanently seated position, but it didn't take long for him to take in the sight of Erik on his knees – cradling a keening body that struggled in his tight embrace. The air stunk of burning flesh. "Is she okay?  _Erik_ ," he stressed the name. He could tell the girl was in severe pain. "Erik, she needs a hospital."

"Does she  _look_  okay?" Erik's reply was so severe that Charles felt the mental whiplash. The metal-bender stood abruptly, the little body he cradled in his arms writhed in pain. "This is what you teach your  _X-Men_?" The name was spat with as much disgust one hissed the title Nazi with. "To attack first, ask questions later?"

"No," Charles shook his head, almost pleading. "Of course not, Erik. It was an accident."

"She's a child!" Erik's roar reverberated in the warehouse. The green-haired child in his strong grip laboriously drew in another breath. The unstable rhythm caught his attention, and he turned his face down to look at the tear-stained cheeks of his now whimpering daughter. She shook so hard that Erik's arms visibly strained under the movement. He shifted her violently trembling form, the move affording Charles a brief glimpse of her horribly burned arm. The skin was still bubbling.

"Erik." Charles felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. He made sure that his tone of voice matched the seriousness of his countenance. "Erik, listen to me. We can argue later, but right now your girls need a hospital." The younger man thought nothing of his phrasing, until he felt a red flag flare up in the back of Erik's muddled mind.

"What?" The voice was now deadly calm. The mind was anything but.

Charles closed his eyes, and vigorously shook his head. "Later," he attempted to stress. "Erik, please. Please, listen to me. Now isn't the time."

_Later_.

That single word did nothing more but reinforce the little seed of comprehension planted in Erik's mind. His face contorted from doubt to confusion, into the dawn of understanding, before it settled into a frigid sort of iciness that reminded Charles too much of a certain telepath in their past.

"Pietro."

The teen appeared before his father in less than a second. His dark eyes were blown wide with concern as he watched Erik struggle to maintain his hold on the writhing girl in his arms. Erik reinforced his grip by calling on his ability. Now that Charles was really paying attention, he could almost believe that the entire building was humming in response. "Get the others. Now."

Peter hesitated before he zipped to the back of the warehouse, and arrived just as quickly as he had disappeared with Morty and the now sickly-looking girl. "Dad, what's going on?" He strained to get a good look at his little sister's damaged arm.

"Did you know?" Erik's voice was tight.

"I didn't." Charles shook his head. "Not until a moment ago."

"What's going on?" Pietro's voice grew firmer. He sounded just like his father.

"We're leaving." Erik's tone definitely brooked no argument. "She's coming with us."

Charles made a sound in the back of his throat, an aborted attempt at protestation. He could hear the others stopping themselves short too. The young professor knew there was no stopping Erik from leaving with the mutant girl, short of using telepathy. He had, after all, inadvertently just told the man that the girl, the dark-haired teen that shared Pietro's full lips and pert nose, was in fact his other child.

"Erik." His voice was thick with a sudden onset of exhaustion, but full of deadly warning. "I  _can_  keep you here." The professor knew that Erik would do anything to keep his children safe, but Charles needed the man to know that he would do the same - regardless of whether or not said children were even his own.

The metal-bender's pale eyes narrowed at the implication. Charles didn't miss the visualization of a certain, damned helmet. Erik shifted Lorna in his arms once again. She moaned in pain.

"You'd keep me here against my will?"

"I'd do anything I'd have to if it meant that I would be protecting what means most to me for another day."

"No matter the cost?"

Charles' voice was as grave as Erik's expression.

"No matter the cost."

Erik nodded once. "I think you know that I can't leave her with you."

Charles mimicked the dip of his head. "This time, I do." He took a steadying breath. "The next time will be much, much different, old friend."

The moniker evoked a flicker of Erik's gray eyes, but nothing more. Instead, he slowly turned to take in the dark-haired teen standing shoulder to shoulder with Pietro. The resemblance to her twin was uncanny. They shared the same upturned nose, and wide eyes. Hers were shades lighter to his darker pair, but they were undoubtedly the same shape. Her lips were as full, and pulled into a grimace that currently matched Peter's.

"Wanda," Charles maneuvered his chair so that he could fully see her. The man's voice was as soothing as his rose-red lips, but his eyes held together an entirely different emotion. She, of course, didn't see that. "I understand you're scared, but as my friend told you earlier," his blue eyes flicked over to Erik, then back again, "We're here to help."

_"We understand_.  _Everything_."

Her eyes widened in shock, and her jaw dropped slightly at the voice in her head. "I thought I was the only one." She shook her head, and closed her eyes. Tears streaked down her unblemished cheeks. "I thought I was alone."

"Wanda-" Erik's voice cut through the still air. His voice, however, no longer held the steel edge to it. Instead, it was soft and warm, and thick with emotion. He looked down at his daughter, reduced to sporadic whimpers in his arms, before he looked up again.

His little girl in his arms. His twins before him.

"You're  _not_  alone."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!


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